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tir^ie MibetsiDc ILitcraturc Series 


A Selection from the Work of Contemporaneous 
American Poets 



Editor of The Little Book of American Poets 




R. L S. 254 

U . S . A 


"The Little Book of Modern Verse," as its name 
implies, is not a formal anthology. The pageant of 
American poetry has been so often presented that no 
necessity exists for another exhaustive review of the 
art. Nearly all anthologies, however, stop short of the 
present group of poets, or represent them so inade- 
quately that only those in close touch with the trend 
of American literature know what the poet of to-day 
is contributing to it. 

It is strictly, then, as a reflection of our own period, 
to show what is being done by the successors of our 
earlier poets, what new interpretation they are giving 
to life, what new beauty they have apprehended, what 
new art they have evolved, that this little book has 
taken form. A few of the poets included have been 
writing for a quarter of a century, and were, therefore, 
among the immediate successors of the New England 
group, but many have done their work within the 
past decade and the volume as a whole represents the 
twentieth-century spirit. 

From the scheme of the book, that of a small, inti- 
mate collection, representative rather than exhaustive, 
it has been impossible to include all of the poets who 
would naturally be included in a more ambitious 
anthology. In certain instances, also, matters of copy- 
right have deterred me from including those whom I 
had originally intended to represent, but with isolated 
exceptions the little book covers the work of our later 
poets and gives a hint of what they are doing. 

I have attempted, as far as possible, to unify the col- 
lection by arranging the poems so that each should set 


the keynote to the next, or at least bear some relation 
to it in mood or theme. While it is impossible, with so 
varied a mass of material, that such a sequence should 
be exact, and in one or two instances the arrangement 
has been disturbed by the late addition or elimination 
of poems, the idea has been to differentiate the little 
volume from the typical anthology by giving it a unity 
impossible to a larger collection. 

Jessie B. Rittenhouse, 


Across the Fields to Anne. Richard Burton ... 84 
After a Dolmetsch Concert. Arthur Upson . . . 181 

Agamede's Song. Arthur Upson 32 

As I came down from Lebanon. Clinton Scollard . . 99 
As in the Midst of Battle there is Room. George Santa- 

yana 153 

Ashes in the Sea, The. George Sterling . . . .170 
At Gibraltar. George Edward Woodherry . . . .11 
At the End of the Day. Richard Hovey .... 183 

Automobile, The. Percy MacKaye 8 

Azrael. Robert Gilbert Welsh 167 

Bacchus. Frank Dempster Sherman 30 

Bag- Pipes at Sea. Clinton Scollard 49 

Ballade of my Lady's Beauty. Joyce Kilmer ... 69 

Be still. Trumbull Stickney 58 

Black Sheep. Richard Burton 135 

Black Vulture, The. George Sterling 8 

Boy from Rome, Da. Thomas Augustine Daly . . .108 
Buried City, The. George Sylvester Viereck ... 59 

Calverly's. Edwin Arlington Robinson .... 160 
Candle and the Flame, The. George Sylvester Viereck 131 

Candlemas. Alice Brown 25 

Caravan from China comes, A. Richard Le Gallienne . 98 

Chavez. Mildred McNeal Sweeney 9 

Cloud, The. Josephine Preston Peabody . . . .127 

Comrades. Richard Hovey 159 

Comrades. George Edward Woodberry 157 


Daguerreotype, The. William Vaughn Moody ... 41 

Departure. Hermann Hagedorn 172 

Dreamer, The. Nicholas Vachel Lindsay .... 97 
Dust Dethroned, The. George Sterling .... 102 

Eagle that is forgotten. The. Nicholas Vachel Lindsay . 113 

Euchenor Chorus. Arthur Upson 12 

Evensong. Ridgely Torrence .62 

Ex Libris. Arthur Upson 153 

Exordium. George Cabot Lodge 118 

Faun in Wall Street, A. John Myers O'Hara . . .125 

Fiat Lux. Lloyd Mifflin 97 

Flight, The. Lloyd Mifflin 168 

Four Winds. Sara Teasdale 82 

"Frost To-Night." Edith M. Thomas 193 

Frozen Grail, The. Elsa Barker 119 

Fugitives, The. Florence Wilkinson 110 

Gloucester Moors. William Vaughn Moody ... 4 

Golden Pulse. John Myers O'Hara 63 

Grandmither, think not I forget. WUla Sibert Gather . 75 

Grey Rocks, and Greyer Sea. Charles G. D. Roberts . 74 

Grieve not. Ladies. Anna Hempstead Branch ... 70 

Happiest Heart, The. John Vance Cheney . . .122 
Harps hung up in Babylon. Arthur Colton . . . 66 
He whom a Dream hath possessed. Shaemas Sheet . 14 
Heart's Country, The. Florence Wilkinson ... 50 
Here is the Place where Loveliness keeps House. Madi- 
son Cawein 27 

Hora Christi. Alice Brown 200 

House and the Road, The. Josephine Preston Peabody . 86 

I know not why. Morris Rosenfeld . . . . .198 
I shall not care. Sara Teasdale 72 



I would I might forget that I am I. George Santayana . 177 
Inverted Torch, The. Edith M. Thomas . . . .174 
Invisible Bride, The. Edwin Markham 
Irish Peasant Song. Louise Imogen Guiney 

Joy of the Hills, The. Edwin Markham 
Joyous-Gard. Thomas S. Jones, Jr. 

Kinchinjunga. Cale Young Rice 
Kings, The. Louise Imogen Guiney 




Leetla Boy, Da. Thomas Augustine Daly .... 31 

Lesser Children, The. Ridgely Torrence .... 186 

Let me no more a Mendicant. Arthur Colton . . . 136 

Life. John Hall Wheelock 35 

Lincoln, the Man of the People. Eduin Markham . . 137 
Little Gray Songs from St. Joseph's. Grace Fallow 

Norton 78 

Live blindly. Trumbull Stickney 67 

Lord of my Heart's Elation. Bliss Carman ... 3 
Love came back at Fall o' Dew. Lizette Woodworth 

Reese 73 

Love knocks at the Door. John Hall Wheelock . . 130 

Love Triumphant. Frederic Lawrence Knowles . . 57 

Love's Ritual. Charles Hanson Towne .... 74 

Love's Springtide. Frank Dempster Sherman . . * 68 

Man with the Hoe, The. Edwin Markham . . .116 

Martin. Joyce Kilmer 151 

Massa ob de Sheepfol', De. Sarah Pratt McLean Greene 134 
Master, The. Eduin Arlington Robinson .... 139 
May is building her House. Richard Le Gallienne . . 26 
Memorial Tablet, A. Florence Wilkinson . . . .114 
Miniver Cheevy. Edwin Arlington Robinson . . . 182 

Mockery. Louis Untermeyer 16 

Mother. Theresa Helburn ...... c • 58 


Mystic, The. WiMer Bynner 126 

Mystic, The. Cale Young Rice 175 

New Life, The. Witter Bynner 151 

Nightingale unheard. The. Josephine Preston Pcabody . 52 
Night's Mardi Gras. Edward J. Wheeler .... 175 

Ode in Time of Hesitation, An. WiUiam Vaughn Moody 17 

Of Joan's Youth. Louise Imogen Guiney .... 7^ 
On a Fly-Leaf of Burns' Songs. Frederic Lawrence 

Knowles , . ]82 

On a Subway Express. Chester Firkins .... 7 

On the Building of Springfield. Nicholas Vachel Lindsay l-H 

Once. Trumbull Stickney 1£9 

Only of thee and me. Louis Untermeyer . . . .56 

Only Way, The. Louis V. Ledoux 100 

Outer Gate, The. Nora May French 170 

Parting Guest, A. James Whitcomb Riley .... 201 
Path to the Woods, The. Madison Cawein ... 87 

Poet, The. Mildred McXeal Sweeney 154 

Poet's Town, The. John G. Xeihardt 143 

Prince, The. Josephine Dodge Daskam .... 81 

Quiet Singer, The. Charles Hanson Towne . . . 179 

Recessional, The. Charles G. D. Roberts .... 196 

Renascence. Edna St. Vincent Millay 89 

Rhyme of Death's Inn, A. Lizette Woodirorth Reese . 169 

Ride to the Lady, The. Helen Gray Cone .... 60 

Rival, The. James Whitcomb Riley 169 

Rosary, The. Robert Cameron Rogers 129 

Sappho. Sara Teasdole 61 

Scum o' the Earth. Robert Haven Schauffler . . . 105 
Sea Gypsy, The. Richard Hovey 11 


Sea-Lands, The. Orrick Johns 48 

Secret, The. George Edward Woodberry .... 51 

Sentence. Witter Bynner 157 

Sic Vita. William Stanley Braithwaite 84 

Sometimes. Thomas S. JoneSy Jr 89 

Somewhere. John Vance Cheney 193 

Song. Florence Earle Coates 37 

Song. Florence Earle Coates 128 

Song. Richard Le Gallienne 173 

Song in Spring, A. Thomas S. Jones, Jr, . . . . 26 

Song is so old. Hermann Hagedorn 36 

Song of the Unsuccessful, The. Richard Burton . .111 
Songs for my Mother. Anna Hempstead Branch . . 38 

Souls. Fannie Stearns Davis 96 

Stains. Theodosia Garrison 133 

Tears. Lizette Woodworth Reese 48 

Tears of Harlequin, The. Theodosia Garrison ... 58 
That Day you came. Lizette Woodworth Reese ... 36 
There's Rosemary. Olive Tilford Dargan .... 73 
They went forth to Battle but they always fell. Shaemas 

Sheel 112 

Thought of her, The. Richard Hovey . . . .128 

To a New York Shop-Girl dressed for Sunday. Anna 

Hempstead Branch 122 

To William Sharp. Clinton Scollard 178 

To-Day. Helen Gray Cone 116 

Trumbull Stickney. George Cabot Lodge .... 156 
Tryste Noel. Louise Imogen Guiney ..... 199 

Unconquered Air, The. Florence Earle Coates . . . 121 

Under Arcturus. Madison Cawein 194 

Unreturning, The. Bliss Carman 25 

Uriel. Percy MacKaye 161 

Vagabond Song, A. Bliss Carman 192 


Wanderers. George Sylvester Viereck 68 

Water Fantasy. Fannie Stearns Davis 28 

We needs must be divided in the Tomb. George Santa- 

yana 172 

West-Country Lover, A. Alice Brown .... 82 

W^hen I am dead and Sister to the Dust. Elsa Barker . 77 
When I have gone Weird Ways. John G. Neihardt . .155 

When the Wind is low. Cale Young Rice .... 56 

WTiy. Bliss Carman 32 

Wife from Fairyland, The. Richard Le Gallienne . . 33 

Winter Ride, A. Amy Lowell 83 

Winter Sleep. Edith M. Thomas ...... 198 

Witchery. Frank Dempster Sherman 68 


Thanks are due to the following publishers for per- 
mission to include selections from the volumes enumer- 
ated below: — 

To Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Co. for selections from 
"Poems and Poetic Dramas," by William Vaughn Moody; 
"Happy Ending," by Louise Imogen Guiney; "Uriel, and 
Other Poems," by Percy MacKaye; "A Troop of the 
Guard," by Hermann Hagedorn; "Poems and Poetic 
Dramas," by George Cabot Lodge; "Little Gray Songs from 
St. Joseph's," by Grace Fallow Norton; "Poems and Poetic 
Dramas," by Trumbull Stickney; "Scum o' the Earth," by 
Robert Haven Schauffler; "The Inverted Torch," by Edith 
M. Thomas; "The Ride to the Lady, and Other Poems," and 
"Oberon and Puck," by Helen Gray Cone; "The Singing 
Man," and "The Singing Leaves," by Josephine Preston 
Peabody; "The Shoes that Danced, and Other Poems," by 
Anna Hempstead Branch; "The Unconquered Air," "Lyrics 
of Life," and "Poems," by Florence Earle Coates; "Lyrics of 
Joy," by Frank Dempster Sherman; "Poems," by John 
Vance Cheney; "A Quiet Road," by Lizette Woodworth 
Reese; "A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass," by Amy 
Lowell; and for the following poems from the Atlantic 
Monthly: "On a Subway Express," by Chester Firkins; 
"Evensong," and "The Lesser Children," by Ridgely Tor- 

To Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons for selections from "The 
Town down the River," by Edwin Arlington Robinson; "A 
Winter Swallow," by Edith M. Thomas; "Poems," by 
Josephine Dodge Daskam; and from Scribner's Magazine: 
"A Memorial Tablet," by Florence Wilkinson, and " Com* 
rades," by George Edward Woodberry. 


To Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Co. for selections from 
**The Man with the Hoe, and Other Poems," and "Lincoln, 
and Other Poems," by Edwin Markham; "The Far Country," 
by Florence Wilkinson; "Many Gods," and "Far Quests," by 
Cale Young Rice; and "A Summer of Love," by Joyce 

To Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. for selections from "Mes- 
sage and Melody," "Lyrics of Brotherhood," and "Dumb in 
June," by Richard Burton. 

To Messrs. Dana Estes & Co. for selections from "Love 
Triumphant," and "On Life's Stairway," by Frederic 
Lawrence Knowles. 

To Messrs. DuflBeld & Co. for selections from "The Frozen 
Grail, and Other Poems," and "The Book of Love," by Elsa 
Barker; "Poems," by George Santayana; and "Along the 
Trail," by Richard Hovey. 

To Messrs. L. C. Page & Co. for selections from "Poems: 
New Complete Edition," by Charles G. D. Roberts, copy- 
right, 1903, and "The Green Book of the Bards," by Bliss 
Carman, copyright, 1903. 

To A. M. Robertson for selections from "A Wine of Wiz- 
ardry," and "The House of Orchids," by George Sterling, 
and "Poems," by Nora May French. 

To S. S. McClure Co. for the use of the poem "There's 
Rosemary," by Olive Tilford Dargan, published in McClure s 

To Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co. for selections from 
"Songs from Vagabondia," "More Songs from Vagabondia," 
and "Last Songs from Vagabondia," by Bliss Carman and 
Richard Hovey; "An Ode to Harvard, and Other Poems," by 
Witter Bynner; and "The Poet, the Fool, and the Fairies," 
by Madison Caw^ein. 

To The John Lane Co. for selections from "New Poems," 
and "English Poems," by Richard Le Gallienne, and "Car- 
mina," by Thomas Augustine Daly. 

To The Century Co. for the use of the poems " WTien I have 


gone Weird Ways," by JohnG. Neihardt, and "Chavez," by 
Mildred McNeal Sweeney. 

To Thomas B. Mosher for selections from "A Wayside 
Lute," by Lizette Wood worth Reese. 

To Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons for selections from 
"Helen of Troy, and Other Poems," by Sara Teasdale, and 
"Poems," by Robert Cameron Rogers. 

To Messrs. Moffat, Yard & Co. for selections from "The 
Candle and the Flame," by George Sylvester Viereck. 

To Messrs. Harper & Bros, for the use of the poems, 
"Azrael," by Robert Gilbert Welsh; "Frost To-night," by 
Edith M. Thomas; "Mother," by Theresa Helburn; and 
'* May is building her House," by Richard Le Gallienne. 

To The Bobbs-Merrill Company for the use of the follow- 
ing poems by James Whitcomb Riley: "The Rival," from 
" Green Fields and Running Brooks," copyrighted in 1892; 
"The 'Parting Guest" from "Morning," copyrighted in 

To Mitchell Kennerley for selections from "A Quiet 
Singer," and "Youth," by Charles Hanson Towne; "The Joy 
o' Life," by Theodosia Garrison; "The Stranger at the Gate," 
by John G. Neihardt; for the use of "The Sea-Lands," by 
Orrick Johns, and "Sentence," by Witter B^Tiner, published 
in the Forum; and for "Renascence," by Edna St. Vin- 
cent Millay, and "He whom a Dream hath possessed," by 
Shaemas O Sheel, published in the Lyric Year. 

To The Oxford University Press for selections from 
"Sonnets," by Lloyd Mifflin. 

To Messrs. Henry Holt & Co. for selections from "Harps 
hung up in Babylon," by Arthur Colton. 

To The Macmillan Co. for the use of selections from the 
"Collected Poems of George E. Woodberry"; and from 
"Myself and I," by Fannie Stearns Davis. 

To George William Browning for the use of poems by 
Thomas S. Jones, Jr., and Clinton Scollard. 

To Messrs. Sherman, French & Co. for selections from 


"First Love," bv Louis Untermever, and "The Beloved 

Adventure," by John Hall \Mieelock. 

To the American Magazine for the use of the poem "On 
the Building of Springfield," by Nicholas Vachel Lindsay. 

To the Smart Set for the use of the sonnet, ** A Faun in 
Wall Street," by John Myers O'Hara. 

To Miss Harriet Monroe, editor of Poetry , for the use of 
"The Mystic," by Witter Bynner. 

To William Stanley Braithwaite, editor of the Poetry 
Journal, for the use of "The Only Way," by Louis V. 

To Messrs. John W. Luce & Co. for selections from "The 
House of Falling Leaves," by William Stanley Braithwaite. 

To the editors of the Outlook for permission to reprint 
"Night's Mardi Gras." by Edward J. Wheeler. 

Sincere thanks are due also to my friend Thomas S. 
Jones, Jr., who, during my absence in Europe, has 
kindly taken charge of all details incident to putting 
"The Little Book of Modern Verse" through the 


Lord of my heart's elation, 
Spirit of things unseen, 
Be thou my aspiration 
Consuming and serene! 

Bear up, bear out, bear onward, 
This mortal soul alone, 
To selfhood or oblivion. 
Incredibly thine own, — 

As the foamheads are loosened 
And blown along the sea. 
Or sink and merge forever 
In that which bids them be. 

I, too, must climb in wonder, 
Uplift at thy command, — 
Be one with my frail fellows 
Beneath the wind's strong hand, 

A fleet and shadowy column 
Of dust or mountain rain. 
To walk the earth a moment 
And be dissolved again. 

Be thou my exaltation 
Or fortitude of mien. 
Lord of the world's elation, 
Thou breath of things unseen! 

Bliss Carman, 




A MILE behind is Gloucester town 
Where the fishing fleets put in, 
A mile ahead the land dips down 
And the woods and farms begin. 
Here, where the moors stretch free 
In the high blue afternoon, 
Are the marching sun and talking sea. 
And the racing winds that wheel and flee 
On the flying heels of June. 

Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue, 

Blue is the quaker-maid, 

The wild geranium holds its dew 

Long in the boulder's shade. 

Wax-red hangs the cup 

From the huckleberry boughs, 

In barberry bells the grey moths sup 

Or where the choke-cherry lifts high up 

Sweet bowls for their carouse. 

Over the shelf of the sandy cove 

Beach-peas blossom late. 

By copse and cliff the swallows rove 

Each calling to his mate. 

Seaward the sea-gulls go, 

And the land-birds all are here;* 

That green-gold flash was a vireo. 

And yonder flame where the marsh-flags grow 

Was a scarlet tanager. 

This earth is not the steadfast place 
We landsmen build upon; 


From deep to deep she varies pace^ 
And while she comes is gone. 
Beneath my feet I feel 
Her smooth bulk heave and dip; 
With velvet plunge and soft upreel 
She swings and steadies to her keel 
Like a gallant, gallant ship. 

These summer clouds she sets for sail, 

The sun is her masthead light, 

She tows the moon like a pinnace frail 

Where her phosphor wake churns brighto 

Now hid, now looming clear. 

On the face of the dangerous blue 

The star fleets tack and wheel and veer. 

But on, but on does the old earth steer 

As if her port she knew. 

God, dear God! Does she know her por'Cr 

Though she goes so far about .'^ 

Or blind astray, does she make her sport 

To brazen and chance it out.^ 

I watched when her captains passed: 

She were better captainless. 

Men in the cabin, before the mast. 

But some were reckless and some aghast. 

And some sat gorged at mess. 

By her battened hatch I leaned and caught 
Sounds from the noisome hold, — 
Cursing and sighing of souls distraught 
And cries too sad to be told. 
Then I strove to go down and see; 
But they said; "Thou art not of usl" 


I turned to those on the deck with me 

And cried, **Give help!" But they said, "Let be: 

Our ship sails faster thus." 

Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue. 

Blue is the quaker-maid, 

The alder-clump where the brook comes through 

Breeds cresses in its shade. 

To be out of the moiling street 

With its swelter and its sin! 

Who has given to me this sweet, 

And given my brother dust to eat.^^ 

And when will his wage come in? 

Scattering wide or blown in ranks, 

Yellow and white and brown, 

Boats and boats from the fishing banks 

Come home to Gloucester town. 

There is cash to purse and spend. 

There are wives to be embraced, 

Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend, 

And hearts to take and keep to the end, — 

O little sails, make haste! 

But thou, vast outbound ship of souls, 

What harbor town for thee.^ 

What shapes, when thy arriving tolls? 

Shall crowd the banks to see.^ 

Shall all the happy shipmates then 

Stand singing brotherly.^ 

Or shall a haggard ruthless few 

Warp her over and bring her to, 

While the many broken souls of nien 


Fester down in the slaver's pen. 
And nothing to say or do? 

William Vaughn Moody. 


I, WHO have lost the stars, the sod. 
For chilling pave and cheerless light. 

Have made my meeting-place with God 
A new and nether Night — 

Have found a fane where thunder fills 
Loud caverns, tremulous; — and these 

Atone me for my reverend hills 
And moonlit silences. 

A figment in the crowded dark. 
Where men sit muted by the roar, 

I ride upon the whirring Spark 
Beneath the city's floor. 

In this dim firmament, the stars 
Whirl by in blazing files and tiers; 

Kin meteors graze our flying bars. 
Amid the spinning spheres. 

Speed! speed! until the quivering rails 
Flash silver where the head-light gleams, 

As when on lakes the Moon impales 
The waves upon its beams. 

Life throbs about me, yet I stand 
Outgazing on majestic Power; 


Death rides with me, on either hand. 
In my communion hour. 

'You that 'neath country skies can pray. 
Scoff not at me — the city clod; — 

My only respite of the Day 
Is this wild ride — with God. 

Chester Firkins. 


Fluid the world flowed under us: the hills 
Billow on billow of umbrageous green 
Heaved us, aghast, to fresh horizons, seen 

One rapturous instant, blind with flash of rills 

And silver-rising storms and dewy stills 

Of dripping boulders, till the dim ravine 
Drowned us again in leafage, whose serene 

Coverts grew loud with our tumultuous wills. 

Then all of Nature's old amazement seemed 
Sudden to ask us: "Is this also Man.^ 
This plunging, volant, land-amphibian 

What Plato mused and Paracelsus dreamed? 

Reply!" And piercing us with ancient scan, 

The shrill, primeval hawk gazed down — and screamed 

Percy MacKays, 


Aloof upon the day's immeasured dome. 

He holds unshared the silence of the sky. 
Far down his bleak, relentless eyes descry 


The eagle's empire and the falcon's home — 
Far down, the galleons of sunset roam; 

His hazards on the sea of morning lie; 

Serene, he hears the broken tempest sigh 
Where cold sierras gleam like scattered foam. 

And least of all he holds the human swarm — 
Unwitting now that envious men prepare 
To make their dream and its fulfillment one. 
When, poised above the caldrons of the storm, 
Their hearts, contemptuous of death, shall dare 
His roads between the thunder and the sun. 

George Sterling. 


So hath he fallen, the Endymion of the air. 

And so lies down in slumber lapped for aye. 
Diana, passing, found his youth too fair. 
His soul too fleet and willing to obey. 
She swung her golden moon before his eyes — 
Dreaming, he rose to follow — and ran — and was 

His foot was winged as the mounting sun. 

Earth he disdained — the dusty ways of men 
Not yet had learned. His spirit longed to run 
With the bright clouds, his brothers, to answer 
The airs were fleetest and could give him hand 
Into the starry fields beyond our plodding ken. 

All wittingly that glorious way he chose. 

And loved the peril when it was most bright. 



He tried anew the long-forbidden snows 

And like an eagle topped the dropping height 
Of Nagenhorn, and still toward Italy 
Past peak and cliff pressed on, in glad, unerring flight 

Oh, when the bird lies low with golden wing 

Bruised past healing by some bitter chance, 
Still must its tireless spirit mount and sing 

Of meadows green with morning, of the dance 
On windy trees, the darting flight away, 
And of that last, most blue, triumphant downward 

So murmuring of the snow: *" The snow, and more, 
God, more snow!'' on that last field he lay. 

Despair and wonder spent their passsionate store 
In his great heart, through heaven gone astray. 

And early lost. Too far the golden moon 
Had swung upon that bright, that long, un traversed way. 

Now to lie ended on the murmuring plain — 
Ah, this for his bold heart was not the loss. 
But that those windy fields he ne'er again 

Might try, nor fleet and shimmering mountains 
Unf olio wed, by a path none other knew: 
His bitter woe had here its deep and piteous cause. 

Dear toils of youth unfinished! And songs unwrit- 
ten, left 

By young and passionate hearts! O melodies 
Unheard, whereof we ever stand bereft! 

Clear-singing Schubert, boyish Keats — with these 


He roams henceforth, one with the starry band. 

Still paying to fairy call and far command 
His spirit heed, still winged with golden prophecies. 

Mildred McNeal Sweeney. 


I AM fevered with the sunset, 
I am fretful with the bay. 
For the wander-thirst is on me 
And my soul is in Cathay. 

There 's a schooner in the oflfing, 
With her topsails shot with fire, 
And my heart has gone aboard her 
For the Islands of Desire. 

I must forth again to-morrow! 
With the sunset I must be 
Hull down on the trail of rapture 
In the wonder of the sea. 

Richard Hovey, 


England, I stand on thy imperial ground, 

Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow, 

I feel within my blood old battles flow — 

The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found. 

Still surging dark against the Christian bound 

Wide Islam presses; welj its peoples know 


Thy heighta that watch them wandering below; 
I think how Luc know heard their gathering sound. 
I turn, and meet the cniel, turbaned face. 
England, 't i» sweet to be 3o much thy aon! 
I feel the coiMpuHor in my blood and race; 
La^t night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day 
Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun 
Startlea the desert over Africa 1 


Tbtsa art the rock of empire, set mid-seaa 
8etwe«i the East and West, that Grod has built; 
Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt. 
While run thy armies true with His decrees. 
Law, juatice, liberty — great gifts are these; 
Watch that they spread where English blood is spQt, 
Lest, mixefi and sullied with his country's guilt, 
The soldier's life-stream flow, and Heaven displease! 
Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite. 
Thy blade of war; and, battle-storied, one 
Rejoices in the sheath, and hides from light. 
Anseaeasit I sa; would wars were done! 
Now westward, look, my country bids good-night — 
to the world from ports without a gun! 

George Edward Woodherry, 


{From ''The Citir^ 

Qm oki it went forth to Euchenor, pronounced of Ub 

are — 
Reluctant, impelled by the god's unesamable fire — 


To choose for his doom or to perish at home of disease 
Or be slain of his foes, among men, where Troy surges 
down to the seas. 

Polyides, the soothsayer, spake it, inflamed by the god. 
Of his son whom the fates singled out did he bruit it 

abroad ; 
And Euchenor went down to the ships with his armor 

and men 
And straightway, grown dim on the gulf, passed the 

isles he passed never again. 

Why weep ye, O women of Corinth? The doom ye 

have heard 
Is it strange to vour ears that ve make it so mourn- 

ful a word.^ 
Is he who so fair in your eyes to his manhood upgrew. 
Alone in his doom of pale death — are of mortals the 

beaten so few.^ 

O weep not, companions and lovers! Turn back to 

vour jovs: 
The defeat was not his which he chose, nor the victory 

Him a conqueror, beauteous in youth, o'er the flood his 

fleet brought. 
And the swift spear of Paris that slew completed the 

conquest he sought. 

Not the falling proclaims the defeat, but the place c! 

the fall; 
And the fate that decrees and the god that impels 

through it all 


Regard not blind mortals' divisions of slayer and slain, 
But invisible glories dispense wide over the war- 
gleaming plain. 

Arthur Upson, 


He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more 

of doubting, 
For mist and the blowing of winds and the mouthing 

of words he scorns; 
Not the sinuous speech of schools he hears, but a 

knightly shouting, 
And never comes darkness down, yet he greeteth a 

million morns. 

He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of 
roaming ; 

All roads and the flowing of waves and the speediest 
flight he knows, 

But wherever his feet are set, his soul is forever hom- 

And going, he comes, and coming he heareth a call 
and goes. 

He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of 

At death and the dropping of leaves and the fading of 

suns he smiles. 
For a dream remembers no past and scorns the desire 

of a morrow. 
And a dream in a sea of doom sets surely the ultimate 



He whom a dream hath possessed treads the impal- 
pable marches. 

From the dust of the day's long road he leaps to a 
laughing star, 

And the ruin of worlds that fall he views from eternal 

And rides God's battlefield in a flashing and golden care 

Shaemas Sheel. 


A MAN said unto his Angel: 
"My spirits are fallen low. 
And I cannot carry this battle: 
O brother! where might I go? 

"The terrible Kings are on me 
With spears that are deadly bright; 
Against me so from the cradle 
Do fate and my fathers fight." 

Then said to the man his Angel: 
"Thou wavering, witless soul, 
Back to the ranks! What matter 
To win or to lose the whole. 


As judged by the little judges 
Who hearken not well, nor see? 
Not thus, by the outer issue. 
The Wise shall interpret thee. 

'*Thy will is the sovereign measure 
And only events of things: 


The puniest heart, defying, 

Were stronger than all these Kings. 

^'^ Though out of the past they gather, 
Mind's Doubt, and Bodily Pain, 
And pallid Thirst of the Spirit 
That is kin to the other twain, 

**And Grief, in a cloud of banners. 
And ringletted Vain Desires, 
And Vice, with the spoils upon him 
Of thee and thy beaten sires, — 

** While Kings of eternal evil 
Yet darken the hills about. 
Thy part is with broken sabre 
To rise on the last redoubt; 

"To fear not sensible failure. 
Nor covet the game at all. 
But fighting, fighting, fighting. 
Die, driven against the wall." 

Louise Imogen Guiney, 


God, I return to You on April days 

When along country roads You walk with me, 
And my faith blossoms like the earliest tree 

That shames the bleak world with its yellow sprays ■ 

My faith revives, when through a rosy haze 
The clover-sprinkled hills smile quietly, 
Young winds uplift a bird's clean ecstasy . . • 

For this, O God, my joyousness and praise! 


But now — the crowded streets and choking airs, 
The squaHd people, bruised and tossed about; 

These, or the over-briUiant thoroughfares, 

The too-loud laughter and the empty shout. 

The mirth-mad city, tragic with its cares . . . 

For this, O God, my silence — and my doubt 

Louis Untermeyer. 


Before the solemn bronze Saint Gaudens made 

To thrill the heedless passer's heart with awe. 

And set here in the city's talk and trade 

To the good memory of Robert Shaw, 

This bright March morn I stand, 

And hear the distant spring come up the land; 

Knowing that what I hear is not unheard 

Of this boy soldier and his Negro band. 

For all their gaze is fixed so stern ahead. 

For all the fatal rhythm of their tread. 

The land they died to save from death and shame 

Trembles and waits, hearing the spring's great name 

And by her pangs these resolute ghosts are stirred. 


Through street and mall the tides of people go 

Heedless; the trees upon the Common show 

No hint of green; but to my listening heart 

The still earth doth impart 

Assurance of her jubilant emprise, 

And it is clear to my long-searching ey<8S 


That love at last has might upon the skies. 

The ice is runneled on the little pond; 

A telltale patter drips from off the trees; 

The air is touched with Southland spiceries. 

As if but yesterday it tossed the frond 

Of pendant mosses where the live-oaks grow 

Beyond Virginia and the Carolines, 

Or had its will among the fruits and vines 

Of aromatic isles asleep beyond 

Florida and the Gulf of Mexico. 


Soon shall the Cape Ann children shout in glee, 

Spying the arbutus, sprmg's dear recluse; 

Hill lads at dawn shall hearken the wild goose 

Go honking northward over Tennessee; 

West from Oswego to Sault Sainte-Marie, 

And on to where the Pictured Rocks are hung. 

And yonder where, gigantic, wilful, young, 

Chicago sitteth at the northwest gates, 

With restless violent hands and casual tongue 

Moulding her mighty fates. 

The Lakes shall robe them in ethereal sheen; 

And like a larger sea, the vital green 

Of springing wheat shall vastly be outflung 

Over Dakota and the prairie states. 

By desert people immemorial 

On Arizonan mesas shall be done 

Dim rites unto the thunder and the sun; 

Nor shall the primal gods lack sacrifice 

More splendid, when the white Sierras caU 

Unto the Rockies straightway to arise 

And dance before the unveiled ark of the yeai; 


Sounding their windy cedars as for shawms. 
Unrolling rivers clear 
For flutter of broad phylacteries; 
While Shasta signals to Alaskan seas 
That watch old sluggish glaciers downward creep 
To fling their icebergs thundering from the steep. 
And Mariposa through the purple calms 
Gazes at far Hawaii crowned with palms 
Where East and West are met, — 
A rich seal on the ocean's bosom set 
To say that East and W^est are twain, 
With different loss and gain: 

The Lord hath sundered them; let them be sundered 


Alas ! what sounds are these that come 

Sullenly over the Pacific seas, — 

Sounds of ignoble battle, striking dumb 

The season's half-awakened ecstasies? 

Must I be humble, then, 

Now when my heart hath need of pride? 

Wild love falls on me from these sculptured men; 

By loving much the land for which they died 

I would be justified. 

My spirit was away on pinions wide 

To soothe in praise of her its passionate mood 

And ease it of its ache of gratitude. 

Too sorely heavy is the debt they lay 

On me and the companions of my day. 

I would remember now 

My country's goodliness, make sweet her name. 

Alas! what shade art thou 


Of sorrow or of blame 

Liftest the lyric leafage from her brow, 

And pointest a slow finger at her shame? 

Lies! lies! It cannot be! The wars we wage 

Are noble, and our battles still are won 

By justice for us, ere we lift the gage. 

We have not sold our loftiest heritage. 

The proud republic hath not stooped to cheat 

And scramble in the market-place of war; 

Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star. 

Here is her witness: this, her perfect son. 

This delicate and proud New England soul 

Who leads despised men, with just-unshackled feet 

Up the large ways where death and glory meet, 

To show all peoples that our shame is done. 

That once more we are clean and spirit-whole. 


Crouched in the sea-fog on the moaning sand 
All night he lay, speaking some simple word 
From hour to hour to the slow minds that heard. 
Holding each poor life gently in his hand 
And breathing on the base rejected clay 
Till each dark face shone mystical and grand 
Against the breaking day; 
And lo, the shard the potter cast away 
Was grown a fiery chalice crystal-fine. 
Fulfilled of the divine 

Great wine of battle wrath by God's ring-fingei 


Then upward, where the shadowy bastion loomed 
Huge on the mountain in the wet sea Hght, 
Whence now, and now, infernal flowerage bloomed. 
Bloomed, burst, and scattered down its deadly 

seed, — 
They swept, and died like freemen on the height. 
Like freemen, and like men of noble breed; 
And when the battle fell away at night 
By hasty and contemptuous hands were thrust 
Obscurely in a common grave with him 
The fair-haired keeper of their love and trust. 
Now limb doth mingle with dissolved limb 
In nature's busy old democracy 
To flush the mountain laurel when she blows 
Sweet by the Southern sea. 

And heart with crumbled heart climbs in the rose: -^ 
The untaught hearts with the high heart that knew 
This mountain fortress for no earthly hold 
Of temporal quarrel, but the bastion old 
Of spiritual wrong. 

Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong, 
Expugnable but by a nation's rue 
And bowing down before that equal shrine 
By all men held divine, 
Whereof his band and he were the most holy sigiic 

O bitter, bitter shade! 
Wilt thou not put the scorn 
And instant tragic question from thine eyCo^ 
Do thy dark brows yet crave 
That swift and angry stave — 
Unmeet for this desirous morn -^ 


That I have striven, striven to evade? 
Gazing on him, must I not deem they err 
Whose careless lips in street and shop aver 
As common tidings, deeds to make his cheek 
Flush from the bronze, and his dead throat to speak? 
Surely some elder singer would arise. 
Whose harp hath leave to threaten and to mourn 
Above this people when they go astray. 
Is Whitman, the strong spirit, overworn? 
Has Whittier put his yearning wrath away? 
I will not and I dare not yet believe ! 
Though furtively the sunlight seems to grieve, . 
And the spring-laden breeze 
Out of the gladdening west is sinister 
With sounds of nameless battle overseas; 
Though when we turn and question in suspense 
If these things be indeed after these ways, 
And what things are to follow after these. 
Our fluent men of place and consequence 
Fumble and fill their mouths with hollow phrase. 
Or for the end-all of deep arguments 
Intone their dull commercial liturgies — 
I dare not yet believe! My ears are shut' 
I will not hear the thin satiric praise 
And muffled laughter of our enemies. 
Bidding us never sheathe our valiant sword 
Till we have changed our birthright for a gourd 
Of wild pulse stolen from a barbarian's hut; 
Showing how wise it is to cast away 
The symbols of our spiritual sway. 
That so our hands with better ease 
May wield the driver's whip and grasp the jailer's 



Was it for this our fathers kept the law? 

This crown shall crown their struggle and their ruth? 

Are we the eagle nation Milton saw 

Mewing its mighty youth, 

Soon to possess the mountain winds of truth. 

And be a swift familiar of the sun 

Where aye before God's face his trumpets run? 

Or have we but the talons and the maw, 

And for the abject likeness of our heart 

Shall some less lordly bird be set apart? 

Some gross-billed w^ader where the swamps are fat? 

Some gorger in the sun? Some prowler with the bat? 


Ah, no! 

We have not fallen so. 

We are our fathers' sons: let those who lead us know! 

'T was only yesterday sick Cuba's cry 

Came up the tropic wind, "Now help us, for we 

Then Alabama heard. 
And rising, pale, to Maine and Idaho 
Shouted a burning word. 

Proud state with proud impassioned state conferred. 
And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth, 
East, west, and south, and north, 
Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood and young 
Shed on the awful hill slope at San Juan, 
By the unforgotten names of eager boys 
Who might have tasted girl's love and been stung 
With the old mystic joys 


And starry griefs, now the spring nights come on. 
But that the heart of youth is generous, — 
We charge you, ye who lead us. 
Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain! 
Turn not their new- world victories to gain! 
One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the bays 
Of their dear praise. 

One jot of their pure conquest put to hire, 
The implacable republic will require; 
With clamor, in the glare and gaze of noon. 
Or subtly, coming as a thief at night. 
But surely, very surely, slow or soor 
That insult deep we deeply will requite. 
Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity! 
For save we let the island men go free, 
Those baffled and dislaureled ghosts 
Will curse us from the lamentable coasts 
Where walk the frustrate dead. 
The cup of trembling shall be drained quite. 
Eaten the sour bread of astonishment. 
With ashes of the hearth shall be made white 
Our hair, and wailing shall be in the tent; 
Then on your guiltier head 
Shall our intolerable self -disdain 
Wreak suddenly its anger and its pain; 
For manifest in that disastrous light 
We shall discern the right 
And do it, tardily. — O ye who lead. 
Take heed! 

Blindness we may forgive, but baseness we will smite 

William Vaughn Moody. 



O HEARKEN, all ye little weeds 
That lie beneath the snow, 
(So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!) 
The sun hath risen for royal deeds, 
A valiant wind the vanguard leads; 
Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds 
Before ye rise and blow. 

O furry living things, adream 

On winter's drowsy breast, 
(How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!) 
Arise and follow where a gleam 
Of wizard gold unbinds the stream. 
And all the woodland windings seem 

With sweet expectance blest. 

My birds, come back! the hollow sky 
Is weary for your note. 
(Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!) 
Ere May's soft minions hereward fly. 
Shame on ye, laggards, to deny 
The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye. 
The tawny, shining coat! 

Alice Brown. 


The old eternal spring once more 
Comes back the sad eternal way,-, 

With tender rosy light before 
The going-out of day. 


The great white moon across my door 
A shadow in the twilight stirs; 

But now forever comes no more 
That wondrous look of Hers. 

Bliss Carman. 


O LITTLE buds all bourgeoning with Spring, 

You hold my winter in f orgetf ulness ; 
Without my window lilac branches swing, 
Within my gate I hear a robin sing — 

O little laughing blooms that lift and bless! 

So blow the breezes in a soft caress, 

Blowing my dreams upon a swallow's wingf 
O little merry buds in dappled dress, 
You fill my heart with very wantonness — 
O little buds all bourgeoning with Spring! 

Thomas S. Jones, Jr, 


May is building her house. With apple blooms 

She is roofing over the glimmering rooms; 
Of the oak and the beech hath she builded its beams, 

And, spinning all day at her secret looms. 
With arras of leaves each wind-swayed wall 
She pictureth over, and peopleth it all 

With echoes and dreams. 

And singing of streams. 


May is building her house. Of petal and blade, 
Of the roots of the oak, is the flooring made. 

With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover, 
Each small miracle over and over, 
And tender, traveling green things strayed. 

Her windows, the morning and evening star. 
And her rustling doorways, ever ajar 

With the coming and going 

Of fair things blowing, 
The thresholds of the four winds are. 

May is building her house. From the dust of things 
She is making the songs and the flowers and the wings; 
From October's tossed and trodden gold 
She is making the young year out of the old; 
Yea: out of winter's flying sleet 
She is making all the summer sweet, 
And the brown leaves spurned of November's 
She is changing back aga,in to spring's. 

Richard Le Gallienne, 



Here is the place where Loveliness keeps house. 

Between the river and the wooded hills, 

Within a valley where the Springtime spills 

Her firstling w4nd-flowers under blossoming boughs: 

Where Summer sits braiding her warm, white brows 

With bramble-roses; and where Autumn fills 

Her lap with asters; and old Winter frills 


With crimson haw and hip his snowy blouse. 
Here you may meet with Beauty. Here she sits 
Gazing upon the moon, or all the day 
Tuning a wood-thrush flute, remote, unseen: 
Or when the storm is out, 't is she who flits 
From rock to rock, a form of flying spray. 
Shouting, beneath the leaves' tumultuous green. 

Madison Cawein, 


O BROWN brook, O blithe brook, what will you say to 

^ me 
K I take off my heavy shoon and wade you childishly? 

O take them off, and come to me. ^ 

You shall not fall. Step merrily! 

But, cool brook, but, quick brook, and what ifl should 

White-bodied in your pleasant pool, your bubbles at 

my throat? 

If vou are but a mortal maid. 

Then I shall make you half afraid. 

The water shall be dim and deep, 

And silver fish shall lunge and leap 

About you, coward mortal thing. 

But if you come desiring 

To win once more your naiadhood, 

How you shall laugh and find me good — = 

My golden surfaces, my glooms. 

My secret grottoes' dripping rooms, 


My depths of warm wet emerald. 
My mosses floating fold on fold! 
A-ud where I take the rocky leap 
Like wild white water shall you sweep; 
Like wild white water shall you cry, 
Trembling and turning to the sky. 
While all the thousand-fringed trees 
Glimmer and glisten through the breeze. 
I bid you come! Too long, too long. 
You have forgot my undersong. 
And this perchance you never knew: 
E'en I, the brook, have need of you. 
My naiads faded long ago, — 
My little nymphs, that to and fro 
Within my waters sunnily 
Made small white flames of tinkling glee. 
I have been lonesome, lonesome; yea, 
E'en I, the brook, until this day. 
Cast off your shoon; ah, come to me, 
And I will love you lingeringly! 

wild brook, O wise brook, I cannot come, alas! 

1 am but mortal as the leaves that flicker, float, and 

My body is not used to you; my breath is fluttering 

You clasp me round too icily. Ah, let me go once more! 
Would God I were a naiad- thing whereon Pan's music 

blew ; 
But woe is me! you pagan brook, I cannot stay with 


Fannie Stearns Davis. 



Ljbten to the tawny tliief. 
Hid beneath the wassn 1^, 
Growling at his f aiiy hjOBt^ 
Bidding her with angry boast 
Fill his cup with wme distilled 
Prom the dew the dawn has gpiPw^-' 
Stofed away in golden casks 
Is 1^ precioiis draught he a£^m. 

Who, — who makes this mimic din 
In this mimic meadow inn. 
SiQgs in such a drowsy' note, 
WcHS a gokkn-bdhed coat; 
listers in -Qxe 4Bmii^ wmmm. 
Of this tavern of perfume; 
l>ares to linger at the cup 
Till the yellow sun is up? 

Bacchus H is, come back again 
To the busT haunts of men; 

ft - 

ided and gaily dressed, 
of gold about his breast; 
Straying from his |»radise, 
Ha'^'ing pinions angel-wise, — 
'T is the honey-bee, who goes 
Beveling within a rose! 

Fraru: Dempster ShenrittTL 



Da spreeng ees com' ! but oh, da joy 

Eet ees too latei 
He was so cold, my leetla boy. 

He no could wait. 

I no can count how manny week. 
How manny day, dat he ees seeck; 
How manny night I sect an' hold 
Da leetla hand dat was so cold. 
He was so patience, oh, so sweet! 
Eet hurts my throat for theenk of eet; 
An' all he evra ask ees w'en 
Ees gona com' da spreeng agen. 
Wan day, wan brighta sunny day, 
He see, across da alleyway. 
Da leetla girl dat's livin' dere 
Ees raise her window for da air. 
An' put outside a leetla pot 
Of — w'at-you-call? — forgat-me-not. 
So smalla flower, so leetla theeng! 
But steell eet mak' hees hearta seeng: 
'Oh, now, at las', ees com' da spreeng! 
Da leetla plant eos glad for know 
Da sun ees com' for mak' eet grow. 
So, too, I am grow warm and strong.'' 
So lika dat he seeng hees song. 
But, Ah! da night com' down an' den 
Da weenter ees sneak back agen, 
An' een da alley all da night 
Ees fall da snow, so cold, so white. 
An' cover up da leetla pot 

82 WHY 

Of — wa't-you-call? — forgat-me-not» 
All night da leetla hand I hold 
Ees grow so cold, so cold, so cold! 

Da spreeng ees com'; but oh, da joy 

Eet ees too late! 
He was so cold, my leetla boy, 

He no could wait. 

Thomas Augustine Daly, 


Grow, grow, thou little tree. 
His body at the roots of thee; 
Since last year's loveliness in death 
The living beauty nourisheth. 

Bloom, bloom, thou little tree. 
Thy roots around the heart of me; 
Thou canst not blow too white and fair 
From all the sweetness hidden there. 

Die, die, thou little tree, 
x4nd be as all sweet things must be; 
Deep where thy petals drift I, too, 
Would rest the changing seasons through. 

Arthur Upson c 


For a name unknown, 
Whose fame unblown 
Sleeps in the hills 

For ever and aye; 


For her who hears 
The stir of the years 
Go by on the wind 
By night and day; 

And heeds no thing 
Of the needs of Spring, 
Of Autumn's wonder 
Or Winter's chill; 

For one who sees 
The great sun freeze. 
As he wanders a-cold 
From hill to hill; 

And all her heart 
Is a woven part 
Of the flurry and drift 
Of whirling snow; 

For the sake of two 
Sad eyes and true, 
And the old, old love 
So long ago. 

Bliss Carman 


Her talk was all of woodland things, 

Of little lives that pass 
Away in one green afternoon. 

Deep in the haunted grass; 


For she had come from fairyland, 

The morning of a day 
When the world that still was April 

Was turning into May. 

Green leaves and silence and two eyes - 
'T was so she seemed to me, 

A silver shadow of the woods. 
Whisper and mystery. 

I looked into her woodland eyes, 
And all my heart was hers, 

And then I led her by the hand 
Home up my marble stairs; 

And all my granite and my gold 
Was hers for her green eyes. 

And all my sinful heart was hers 
From sunset to sunrise; 

I gave her all delight and ease 
That God had given to me, 

I listened to fulfill her dreams. 
Rapt with expectancy. 

But all I gave, and all I did. 
Brought but a weary smile 

Of gratitude upon her face; 
As though a little while. 

She loitered in magnificence 

Of marble and of gold. 
And waited to be home again 

When the dull tale was toldo 


Sometimes, in the chill galleries, 

Unseen, she deemed, unheard, 
I found her dancing like a leaf 

And singing like a bird. 

So lone a thing I never saw 

In lonely earth or sky. 
So merry and so sad a things 

One sad, one laughing, eye. 

There came a day when on her heart 

A wildwood blossom lay. 
And the world that still was April 

Was turning into May. 

In the green eyes I saw a smile 

That turned my heart to stone: 
My wife that came from fairyland 

No longer was alone. 

For there had come a little hand 

To show the green way home. 
Home through the leaves, home through the dew, 

Home through the greenwood — home. 

Richard Le Gallienne. 


Life burns us up like fire. 
And Song goes up in flame: 

The radiant body smoulders 
To the ashes whence it came. 


Out of things it rises 

With a mouth that laughs and sings. 
Backward it fades and falters 

Into the char of things. 

Yet soars a voice above it — 

Love is holy and strong; 
The best of us forever 

Escapes in Love and Song. 

John Hall Wheelock. 


Song is so old, 
Love is so new — 
Let me be still 
And kneel to 3'ou. 

Let me be still 
And breathe no word, 
Save what my warm blood 
Sings unheard. 

Let mv warm blood 
Sing low of you — 
Song is so fair. 
Love is so new! 

Hermann Haged(yrfu 


Such special sweetness was about 
That day God sent you here. 

SONG 37 

I knew the lavender was out, 
And it was mid of year. 

Their common way the great winds bleWp 

The ships sailed out to sea; 
Yet ere that day was spent I knew 

Mine own had come to me. 

As after song some snatch of tune 

Lurks still in grass or bough. 
So, somew^hat of the end o' June 

Lurks in each weather now. 

The young year sets the buds astir. 

The old year strips the trees; 
But ever in my lavender 

I hear the brawling bees. 

Lizette Woodworth Reese 


For me the jasmine buds unfold 

And silver daisies star the lea. 
The crocus hoards the sunset gold. 

And the wild rose breathes for me. 
I feel the sap through the bough returning, 

I share the skylark's transport fine, 
I know the fountain's wayward yearning, 

I love, and the world is mine! 

I love, and thoughts that sometime grievedc 
Still well remembered, grieve not me: 


From all that darkened and deceived 

Upsoars my spirit free. 
For soft the hours repeat one story, 

Sings the sea one strain divine; 
My clouds arise all flushed with glory — 

I love, and the world is mine! 

Florence Earle CoateSo 


I HAVE praised many loved ones in my song. 

And yet I stand 
Before her shrine, to whom all things belong. 

With empty hand. 

Perhaps the ripening future holds a time 

For things unsaid; 
Not now; men do not celebrate in rhyme 

Their daily bread. 

Theresa Helburrtc 



My mother's hands are cool and fair, 

They can do anything. 
Delicate mercies hide them there 

Like flowers in the spring. 

When I was small and could not sleep. 
She used to come to me. 


A.nd with my cheek upon her hand 
How sure my rest would be. 

For everything she ever touched 

Of beautiful or fine, 
Their memories living in her hands 

Would warm that sleep of mine. 

Her hands remember how they played 

One time in meadow streams, — 
And all the flickering song and shade 

Of water took my dreams. 

Swift through her haunted fingers pass 

Memories of garden things; — 
I dipped my face in flowers and grass 

And sounds of hidden wings. 

One time she touched the cloud that kissed 

Brown pastures bleak and far; — 
I leaned my cheek into a mist 

And thought I was a star. 

All this was very long ago 

And I am grown; but yet 
The hand that lured my slumber so 

I never can forget. 

For still when drowsiness comes on 

It seems so soft and cool, 
Shaped happily beneath my cheek. 

Hollow and beautiful. 




My mother has the prettiest tricks 
Of words and words and words. 

Her talk comes out as smooth and sleek 
As breasts of singing birds. 

She shapes her speech aJl silver fine 

Because she loves it so. 
And her own eyes begin to shine 

To hear her stories grow. 

And if she goes to make a call 

Or out to take a walk 
We leave our work when she returns 

And run to hear her talk. 

We had not dreamed these things were so 

Of sorrow and of mirth. 
Her speech is as a thousand eyes 

Through which we see the earth. 

God wove a web of loveliness. 
Of clouds and stars and birds, 

But made not any thing at all 
So beautiful as words. 

They shine around our simple earth 

With golden shadowings. 
And every common thing they touch 

Is exquisite with wings. 


There's nothing poor and nothing small 

But is made fair with them. 
They are the hands of living faith 

That touch the garment's hem. 

They are as fair as bloom or air. 

They shine like any star. 
And I am rich who learned from her 

How beautiful they are. 

Anna Hempstead Branch* 


This, then, is she. 

My mother as she looked at seventeen. 

When she first met my father. Young incredibly. 

Younger than spring, without the faintest trace 

Of disappointment, weariness, or tean 

Upon the childlike earnestness and grace 

Of the waiting face. 

Those close-wound ropes of pearl 

(Or common beads made precious by their use) 

Seem heavy for so slight a throat to wear; 

But the low bodice leaves the shoulders bare 

And half the glad swell of the breast, for news 

That now the woman stirs within the girl. 

And yet. 

Even so, the loops and globes 

Of beaten gold 

And jet 

Hung, in the stately way of old. 

From the ears' drooping lobes 


On festivals and Lord's-day of the week. 
Show all too matron-sober for the cheek, — 
Which, now I look again, is perfect child, 
Or no — or no — 't is girlhood's very self, 
Moulded by some deep, mischief-ridden elf 
So meek, so maiden mild, 
But startling the close gazer with the sense 
Of passions forest-shy and forest- wild. 
And delicate delirious merriments. 

As a moth beats sidewise 

And up and over, and tries 

To skirt the irresistible lure 

Of the flame that has him sure, 

My spirit, that is none too strong to-day. 

Flutters and makes delay, — 

Pausing to wonder on the perfect lips, 

Lifting to muse upon the low-drawn hair 

And each hid radiance there. 

But powerless to stem the tide-race bright, 

The vehement peace which drifts it toward the light 

Where soon — ah, now, with cries 

Of grief and giving-up unto its gain 

It shrinks no longer nor denies. 

But dips 

Hurriedly home to the exquisite heart of pain, — 

And all is well, for I have seen them plain. 

The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes! 

Across the blinding gush of these good tears 

They shine as in the sweet and heavy years 

When by her bed and chair 

We children gathered jealously to share 

The sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme. 


Where the sore-stricken body made a clime 
Gentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme, 
flolier and more mystical than prayer. 

God, how thy ways are strange! 

That this should be, even this. 

The patient head 

Which suffered years ago the dreary change! 

That these so dewy lips should be the same 

As those I stooped to kiss 

And heard my harrowing half-spoken name, 

A little ere the one who bowed above her, 

Our father and her very constant lover, 

Rose stoical, and we knew that she was dead. 

Then I, who could not understand or share 

His antique nobleness. 

Being unapt to bear 

The insults which time flings us for our proof 

Fled from the horrible roof 

Into the alien sunshine merciless. 

The shrill satiric fields ghastly with day. 

Raging to front God in his pride of sway 

And hurl across the lifted swords of fate 

That ringed Him where He sat 

My puny gage of scorn and desolate hate 

Which somehow should undo Him, after all! 

That this girl face, expectant, virginal. 

Which gazes out at me 

Boon as a sweetheart, as if nothing loth 

(Save for the eyes, with other presage stored) 

To pledge me troth. 

And in the kingdom where the heart is lord 

Take sail on the terrible gladness of the deep 


Whose winds the gray Norns keep, — 
That this should be indeed 
The flesh which caught my soul, a flying seed, 
Out of the to and fro 

Of scattering hands where the seedsman Mage, 
Stooping from star to star and age to age 
Sings as he sows! 
That underneath this breast 
Nine moons I fed 
Deep of divine unrest, 
While over and over in the dark she said, 
"Blessed! but not as happier children blessed" — 
That this should be 
Even she . . . 

God, how with time and change 
Thou makest thy footsteps strange! 
Ah, now I know 

They play upon me, and it is not so. 
Why, 't is a girl I never saw before, 
A little thing to flatter and make weep, 
To tease until her heart is sore, 
Then kiss and clear the score; 
A gypsy run-the-fields, 
A little liberal daughter of the earth, 
Good for what hour of truancy and mirth 
The careless season yields 

Hither-side the flood of the year and yonder of the neap; 
Then thank you, thanks again, and twenty light good- 
byes. — 
O shrined above the skies, 
Frown not, clear brow, 
Darken not, holy eyes! 
Thou knowest well I know that it is thou 


Only to save me from such memories 
As would unman me quite, 
Here in this web of strangeness caught 
And prey to troubled thought 
Do I devise 

These foolish shifts and slight; 
Only to shield me from the afflicting sense 
Of some waste influence 

Which from this morning face and lustrous hair 
Breathes on me sudden ruin and despair. 
In any other guise. 

With any but this girlish depth of gaze. 
Your coming had not so unsealed and poured 
The dusty amphoras where I had stored 
The drippings of the winepress of my days, 
I think these eyes foresee. 
Now in their unawakened virgin time, 
Their mother's pride in me, 
And dream even now, unconsciously. 
Upon each soaring peak and sky-hung lea 
You pictured I should climb. 
Broken premonitions come. 
Shapes, gestures visionary. 
Not as once to maiden Mary 
The manifest angel with fresh lilies came 
Intelligibly calling her by name; 
But vanishingly, dumb. 
Thwarted and bright and wild, 
As heralding a sin-defiled, 

Earth-encumbered, blood-begotten, passionate man- 
Who yet should be a trump of mighty call 
Blown in the gates of evil kings 


To make them fall; 

Who yet should be a sword of flame before 

The soul's inviolate door 

To beat away the clang of hellish wings; 

Who yet should be a lyre 

Of high unquenchable desire 

In the day of little things. — 

Look, where the amphoras. 

The yield of many davs, 

Trod by my hot soul from the pulp of self, 

And set upon the shelf 

In sullen pride 

The Vineyard-master's tasting to abide — 

O mother mine! 

Are these the bringings-in, the doings fine. 

Of him you used to praise? 

Emptied and overthrown 

The jars lie strown. 

These, for their flavor duly nursed. 

Drip from the stopples vinegar accursed; 

These, I thought honied to the very seal, 

Dry, dry, — a little acid meal, 

A pinch of mouldy dust, 

Sole leavings of the amber-mantling must; 

These, rude to look upon. 

But flasking up the liquor dearest won. 

Through sacred hours and hard, 

With watching and with wrestlings and with grief,. 

Even of these, of these in chief. 

The stale breath sickens reeking from the shard. 

Nothing is left. Aye, how much less than naught! 

What shall be said or thought 

Of the slack hours and waste imaginings, 


The cynic rending of the wings, 

Known to that fro ward, that unreckoning heart 

Whereof this brewage was the precious part. 

Treasured and set away with furtive boast? 

O dear and cruel ghost. 

Be merciful, be just! 

See, I was yours and I am in the dust. 

Then look not so, as if all things were well! 

Take your eyes from me, leave me to my shame. 

Or else, if gaze they must. 

Steel them with judgment, darken them with blame: 

But by the ways of light ineffable 

You bade me go and I have faltered from, 

By the low waters moaning out of hell 

Whereto my feet have come. 

Lay not on me these intolerable 

Looks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy trust! 

Nothing dismayed? 

By all I say and all I hint not made 


O then, stay by me! Let 

These eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me yet. 

Brave eyes and true! 

See how the shrivelled heart, that long has lain 

Dead to delight and pain. 

Stirs, and begins again 

To utter pleasant life, as if it knew 

The wintry days were through; 

As if in its awakening boughs it heard 

The quick, sweet-spoken bird. 

Strong eyes and brave. 

Inexorable to save! 

William Vaughn Moody. 



When I consider Life and its few years — 

A wisp of fog betwixt us and the sun; 

A call to battle, and the battle done 

Ere the last echo dies within our ears; 

A rose choked in the grass; an hour of fears; 

The gusts that past a darkening shore do beat; 

The burst of music down an unlistening street, — 

I wonder at the idleness of tears. 

Ye old, old dead, and ye of yesternight, 

Chieftains, and bards, and keepers of the sheep. 

By every cup of sorrow that you had, 

Loose me from tears, and make me see aright 

How each hath back what once he stayed to weep : 

Homer his sight, David his little lad! 

Lizette Woodworth Reese. 


Would I were on the sea-lands. 
Where winds know how to sting: 

And in the rocks at midnight 
The lost long murmurs sing. 

Would I were with my first love 
To hear the rush and roar 

Of spume below the doorstep 
And winds upon the door. 

My first love was a fair girl 
With ways forever new; 


And hair a sunlight yellow, 
And eyes a morning blue. 

The roses, have they tarried 

Or are they dun and frayed? 
If we had stayed together, 

Would love, indeed, have stayed? 

Ah, years are filled with learning. 

And days are leaves of change! 
And I have met so many 

I knew . . . and found them strangCo 

But on the sea-lands tumbled 

By winds that sting and blind. 
The nights we watched, so silent. 

Come back, come back to mind. « 

I mind about my first love, 

And hear the rush and roar 
Of spume below the doorstep 

And winds upon the door. 

Orrick Johns, 


Above the shouting of the gale. 

The whipping sheet, the dashing spray. 

I heard, with notes of joy and wail, 
A piper play. 

Along the dipping deck he trod. 
The dusk about his shadowy form; 


He seemed like some strange ancient god 
Of song and storm. 

He gave his dim-seen pipes a skirl 
And war went down the darkling air; 

Then came a sudden subtle swirl. 
And love was there. 

What were the winds that flailed and flaved 
The sea to him, the night obscure? 

In dreams he strayed some brackened glade. 
Some heatherv moor. 

And if he saw the slanting spars, 

And if he watched the shifting track. 

He marked, too, the eternal stars 
Shine through the wrack. 

And so amid the deep sea din, 
And so amid the wastes of foam. 

Afar his heart was happy in 
His highland home! 

Clinton Scollard. 


Hill people turn to their hills; 

Sea-folk are sick for the sea: 
Thou art my land and my country, 

And my heart calls out for thee. 

The bird beats his wings for the open^ 
The captive burns to be free; 


But I — I cry at thy window, 
For thou art my liberty. 

Florence Wilkinson. 


Wind-washed and free, full-swept by rain and wave 
By tang of surf and thunder of the gale. 
Wild be the ride yet safe the barque will sail 

And past the plunging seas her harbor brave; 

Nor care have I that storms and waters rave, 
I cannot fear since you can never fail — 
Once have I looked upon the burning grail, 

And through your eyes have seen beyond the grave. 

I know at last — the strange, sweet mystery. 
The nameless joy that trembled into tears, 

The hush of wings when you were at my side — 
For now the veil is rent and I can see. 
See the true vision of the future years. 
As in your face the love of Him who died! 

Thomas S, Jones, Jr. 


Nightingales warble about it. 

All night under blossom and star; 
The wild swan is dying without it. 

And the eagle crieth afar; 
The sun he doth mount but to find it. 

Searching the green earth o'er; 
But more doth a man's heart mind it. 

Oh, more, more, more! 


Over the gray leagues of ocean 

The infinite yearneth alone; 
The forests with wandering emotion 

The thing they know not intone; 
Creation arose but to see it, 

A million lamps in the blue; 
But a lover he shall be it 

If one sweet maid is true. 

George Edward Woodherry 


Yes, Nightingale, through all the summer-time 

We followed on, from moon to golden moon; 

From where Salerno day-dreams in the noon. 
And the far rose of Psestum once did climb. 

All the white way beside the girdling blue, 
Through sun-shrill vines and campanile chime, 

We listened; — from the old vear to the new. 
Brown bird, and where were you? 

You, that Ravello lured not, throned on high 

And filled with singing out of sun-burned throats! 

Nor yet Minore of the flame-sailed boats; 
Nor yet — of all bird-song should glorify — 

Assisi, Little Portion of the blest, 
Assisi, in the bosom of the sky, 

Where God's own singer thatched his sunward nest; 
That little, heavenliest! 

And north and north, to where the hedge-rows are, 
That beckon with white looks an endless way; 


Where, through the fair wet silverness of May, 
A lamb shines out as sudden as a star, 

Among the cloudy sheep; and green, and pale. 
The may-trees reach and glimmer, near or far. 

And the red may-trees wear a shining veil. 
And still, no nightingale! 

The one vain longing, — through all journeyings, 
The one: in every hushed and hearkening spot, — 
All the soft-swarming dark where you were not. 
Still longed for! Yes, for sake of dreams and wings. 

And wonders, that your own must ever make 
To bower you close, with all hearts' treasurings; 
And for that speech toward which all hearts do 
ache; — 
Even for Music's sake. 

But most, his music whose beloved name 

Forever writ in water of bright tears. 

Wins to one grave-side even the Roman years. 
That kindle there the hallowed April flame 

Of comfort-breathing violets. By that shrine 
Of Youth, Love, Death, forevermore the same, 

Violets still ! — When falls, to leave no sign^ 
The arch of Constantine. 

Most for his sake we dreamed. Tho' not as he. 
From that lone spirit, brimmed with human woe 
Your song once shook to surging overflow. 

How was it, sovran dweller of the tree. 
His cry, still throbbing in the flooded shell 

Of silence with remembered melody. 

Could draw from you no answer to the spell? 
— O Voice, O Philomel? 


Long time we wondered (and we knew not why) : — 
Nor dream, nor prayer, of wayside gladness born, 
Nor vineyards waiting, nor reproachful thorn, 

Nor yet the nested hill-towns set so high 

All the white way beside the girdling blue, — 

Nor olives, gray against a golden sky. 

Could serve to wake that rapturous voice of you! 
But the wise silence knew. 

O Nightingale unheard ! — Unheard alone. 
Throughout that woven music of the days 
From the faint sea-rim to the market-place, 

And ring of hammers on cathedral stone! 
So be it, better so: that there should fail 

For sun-filled ones, one blessed thing unknown. 
To them, be hid forever, — and all hail! 
Sing never, Nightingale. 

Sing, for the others! Sing; to some pale cheek 

Against the window, like a starving flower. 

Loose, with your singing, one poor pilgrim hour 
Of journey, with some Heart's Desire to seek. 

Loose, with your singing, captives such as these 
In misery and iron, hearts too meek, 

For voyage — voyage over dreamful seas 
To lost Hesperides. 

Sing not for free-men. iVh, but sing for whom 
The walls shut in; and even as eyes that fade. 
The windows take no heed of light nor shade, — 

The leaves are lost in mutterings of the loom. 
Sing near! So in that golden overflowing 

They may forget their wasted human bloom; 


Pay the devouring days their all, unknowing, — 
Reck not of life's bright going ! 

Sing not for lovers, side by side that hark; 

Nor unto parted lovers, save they be 

Parted indeed by more than makes the Sea, 
Where never hope shall meet — like mounting lark -^ 

Far Joy's uprising; and no memories 
Abide to star the music-haunted dark: 

To them that sit in darkness, such as these, 
Pour down, pour down heart's-ease. 

Not in Kings' gardens. No; but where there haunt 
The world's forgotten, both of men and birds; 

The alleys of no hope and of no words. 

The hidings where men reap not, though they plant; 
But toil and thirst — so dying and so born; — 

And toil and thirst to gather to their want. 

From the lean waste, beyond the daylight's scorn, 
— To gather grapes of thorn ! 

And for those two, your pilgrims without tears, 

Who prayed a largess where there was no dearth. 
Forgive it to their human-happy ears: 

Forgive it them, brown music of the Earth, 
Unknowing, — though the wiser silence knew? 
Forgive it to the music of the spheres 
That while they walked together so, the Two 
Together, — heard not you. 

Josephine Preston Peahody, 



Only of thee and me the night wind sings. 

Only of us the sailors speak at sea, 
The earth is filled with wondered whisperings 

Only of thee and me. 

Only of thee and me the breakers chant. 
Only of us the stir in bush and tree; 

The rain and sunshine tell the eager plant 
Only of thee and me. 

Only of thee and me, till all shall fade; 

Only of us the whole world's thoughts can be — 
For we are Love, and God Himself is made 

Only of thee and me. 

Louis Untermeyer, 


When the wind is low, and the sea is soft. 

And the far heat-lightning plays 
On the rim of the west where dark clouds nest 

On a darker bank of haze; 
When I lean o'er the rail with you that I love 

And gaze to my heart's content; 
T know that the heavens are there above — 

But you are my firmament. 

When the phosphor-stars are thrown from the bow 
And the watch climbs up the shroud; 

When the dim mast dips as the vessel slips 
Through the foam that seethes aloud; 


I know that the years of our life are few. 

And fain as a bird to flee. 
That time is as brief as a drop of dew — 

But you are Eternity. ' 

Cale Young Rice^ 


Helen s lips are drifting dust; 

Ilion is consumed with rust; 

All the galleons of Greece 

Drink the ocean's dreamless peace; 

Lost was Solomon's purple show 

Restless centuries ago; 

Stately empires wax and wane — 

Babylon, Barbary, and Spain; — 

Only one thing, undefaced, 

Lasts, though all the worlds lie waste 

And the heavens are overturned. 

Dear, bow long ago we learned! 

There's a sight that blinds the sun, 
Sound that lives when sounds are done. 
Music that rebukes the birds. 
Language lovelier than words, 
Hue and scent that shame the rose. 
Wine no earthly vineyard knows, 
Silence stiller than the shore 
Swept by Charon's stealthy oar. 
Ocean more divinely free 
Than Pacific's boundless sea, — 
Ye who love have learned it true. 
Dear, how long ago we knew! 

Frederic Lawrence Knowles, 


^^^^■^■^^^™ ' ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ »■■■■■ I ■ ■ ■■ ■ I ULB T 


Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream 

That over Persian roses flew to kiss 

The curled lashes of Semiramis. 

Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream. 

Provence and Troubadour are merest lies, 

The glorious hair of Venice was a beam 

Made within Titian's eye. The sunsets seem, 

The world is very old and nothing is. 

Be still. Thou foolish thing, thou canst not wake, 

Nor thy tears wedge thy soldered lids apart, 

But patter in the darkness of thy heart. 

Thy brain is plagued. Thou art a frighted owl 

Blind with the light of life thou'ldst not forsake. 

And Error loves and nourishes thy soul. 

Trumbull Stickney 


To you he gave his laughter and his jest. 
His words that of all words were merriest. 

His glad, mad moments when the lights flared high 
And his wild song outshrilled the plaudits' din. 

For you that memory, but happier I — 
I, who have known the tears of Harlequin. 

Not mine those moments when the roses lay 
Like red spilled wine on his triumphant way. 

And shouts acclaimed him through the music's beat, 
Above the voice of flute and violin. 

But I have known his hour of sore defeat — 
I — I have known the tears of Harlequin. 


Light kisses and light words, they were not mine — 
Poor perquisites of many a Columbine 

Bought with his laughter, flattered by his jest; 
But when despair broke through the painted grin, 

His tortured face has fallen on my breast — 
I — I have known the tears of Harlequin. 

You weep for him, who look upon him dead. 
That joy and jest and merriment are fled; 

You weep for him, what time my eyes are dry, 
Knowing what peace a weary soul may win 

Stifled by too much masking — even I — 
I, who have known the tears of Harlequin. 

Theodosia Garrisoric 


My heart is like a city of the gay 

Reared on the ruins of a perished one 
Wherein my dead loves cower from the sun, 

VNTiite-swathed like kings, the Pharaohs of a day. 

Within the buried city stirs no sound, 
Save for the bat, forgetful of the rod, 
Perched on the knee of some deserted god, 

And for the groan of rivers underground. 

Stray not, my Love, 'mid the sarcophagi — 
Tempt not the silence, for the fates are deep, 

Lest all the dreamers, deeming doomsday nigh. 
Leap forth in terror from their haunted sleep; 

And like the peal of an accursed bell 

Thy voice call ghosts of dead things back from hell. 

George Sylvester Viereck* 



**Now since mine even is come at last, — 
For I have been the sport of steel, 
And hot life ebbeth from me fast, 
And I in saddle roll and reel, — 
Come bind me, bind me on my steed! 
Of fingering leech I have no need!'' 
The chaplain clasped his mailed knee. 

**Nor need I more thy whine and thee! 
No time is left my sins to tell; 
But look ye bind me, bind me well!" 
They bound him strong with leathern thongj 
For the ride to the lady should be long. 

Day was dying; the poplars fled. 

Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red; 

Out of the sky the fierce hue fell. 

And made the streams as the streams of helL 

All his thoughts as a river flowed. 

Flowed aflame as fleet he rode. 

Onward flowed to her abode. 

Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face. 

(Viewless Death apace, apace. 

Rode behind him in that race.) 

"Face, mine own, mine alone. 
Trembling lips my lips have known, 
Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyne 
Under the kisses that make them mine! 
Only of thee, of thee, my need ! 
Only to thee, to thee, I speed!" 
The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn; 
In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern. 


Far behind had the fight's din died; 
The shuddering stars in the welkin wide 
Crowded, crowded, to see him ride. 
The beating hearts of the stars aloof 
Kept time to the beat of the horse's hoof. 
'What is the throb that thrills so sweet? 
Heart of my lady, I feel it beat!" 
But his own strong pulse the fainter fell, 
Like the failing tongue of a hushing bell. 
The flank of the great-limbed steed was wet 
Not alone with the started sweat. 

Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood 
Arched its cowl like a black friar's hood; 
Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein, — 
But the viewless rider rode to win. 

Out of the wood to the highway's light 
Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright; 
The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried, 
And the weight of the dead oppressed his side. 

Fast, and fast, by the road he knew; 

And slow, and slow, the stars withdrew; 

And the waiting heaven turned weirdly blue. 

As a garment worn of a wizard grim. 

He neighed at the gate in the morning dim. 

She heard no sound before her gate, 

Though very quiet was her bower. 

All was as her hand had left it late: 

The needle slept on the broidered vine, 

Where the hammer and spikes of the passion-flower 

Her fashioning did wait. 


On the couch lay something fair. 

With steadfast lips and veiled eyne; 

But the lady was not there. 

On the wings of shrift and prayer. 

Pure as winds that winnow snow. 

Her soul had risen twelve hours ago. 

The burdened steed at the barred gate stood, 

No whit the nearer to his goal. 

Now God's great grace assoil the soul 

That went out in the wood I 

Helen Gray Cone, 


Beauty calls and gives no warning, 

Shadows rise and wander on the day. 

In the twilight, in the quiet evening, 

We shall rise and smile and go away. 

Over the flaming leaves 

Freezes the skv. 

It is the season grieves. 

Not you, not I. 

All our spring-times, all our summers. 

We have kept the longing warm within. 

Now we leave the after-comers 

To attain the dreams we did not win. 

O we have wakened, Sweet, and had our birth. 

And that's the end of earth; 

And we have toiled and smiled and kept the light. 

And that's the end of night. 

Rid gel y Torrence. 



Out of the purple drifts, 

From the shadow sea of night, 
On tides of musk a moth uplifts 

Its weary wings of white. 

Is it a dream or ghost 

Of a dream that comes to me, 
Here in the twilight on the coast. 

Blue cinctured by the sea? 

Fashioned of foam and froth — 

And the dream is ended soon. 
And lo, whence came the moon-white moth 

Comes now the moth-white moon! 

Frank Dempster Sherman, 


Golden pulse grew on the shore. 

Ferns along the hill, 
And the red cliff roses bore 

Bees to drink their fill; 

Bees that from the meadows bring 

Wine of melilot. 
Honey-sups on golden wing 

To the garden grot. 

But to me, neglected flower, 
Phaon will not see. 


Passion brings no crowning hour. 
Honey nor the bee. 

John Myers O'Hara. 


The twilight's inner flame grows blue and deep, 
And in my Lesbos, over leagues of sea, 
The temples glimmer moonwise in the trees. 
Twilight has veiled the little flower face 
Here on my heart, but still the night is kind 
And leaves her warm sweet weight against my breast. 
/ Am I that Sappho who would run at dusk 
Along the surges creeping up the shore 
When tides came in to ease the hungry beach. 
And running, running, till the night was black, 
Would fall forespent upon the chilly sand 
And quiver with the winds from off the sea? 
Ah, quietly the shingle waits the tides 
Whose waves are stinging kisses, but to me 
Love brought no peace, nor darkness any rest. 
I crept and touched the foam with fevered hands 
And cried to Love, from whom the sea is sweet. 
From whom the sea is bitterer than death. 
Ah, Aphrodite, if I sing no more 
To thee, God's daughter, powerful as God, 
It is that thou hast made my life too sweet 
To hold the added sweetness of a song. 
There is a quiet at the heart of love, 
And I have pierced the pain and come to peaccy 
I hold my peace, my Cleis, on my heart; 
And softer than a little wild bird's wing 


Are kisses that she pours upon my mouth. 

Ah, never any more when spring Hke fire 

Will flicker in the newly opened leaves. 

Shall I steal forth to seek for solitude 

Beyond the lure of light Alcseus' lyre. 

Beyond the sob that stilled Erinna's voice. 

Ah, never with a throat that aches with song, 

Beneath the white uncaring sky of spring. 

Shall I go forth to hide awhile from Love 

The quiver and the crying of my heart. 

Still I remember how I strove to flee 

The love-note of the birds, and bowed my head 

To hurry faster, but upon the ground 

I saw two winged shadows side by side. 

And all the world's spring passion stifled me. 

Ah, Love, there is no fleeing from thy might, 

No lonely place where thou hast never trod. 

No desert thou hast left uncarpeted 

With flowers that spring beneath thy perfect feet. 

In many guises didst thou come to me; 

I saw thee by the maidens while they danced, 

Phaon allured me with a look of thine. 

In Anactoria I knew thy grace, 

I looked at Cercolas and saw thine eyes; 

But never wholly, soul and body mine. 

Didst thou bid any love me as I loved. 

Now I have found the peace that fled from me; 

Close, close, against my heart I hold my world. 

Ah, Love that made my life a lyric cry. 

Ah, Love that tuned my lips to lyres of thine, 

I taught the world thy music, now alone 

I sing for one who falls asleep to hear. 

Sara Teasdale. 



The harps hung up in Babylon, 
Their loosened strings rang on, sang on, 
And east their murmurs forth upon 
The roll and roar of Babylon: 
^'Forget me. Lord, if I forget 
Jerusalem for Babylon, 
If I forget the vision set 
High as the head of Lebanon 
Is lifted over Syria yet. 
If I forget and bow me down 
To brutish gods of Babylon'^ 

Two rivers to each other run 
In the very midst of Babvlon, 
And swifter than their current fleets 
The restless river of the streets 
Of Babylon, of Babylon, 
And Babylon's towers smite the sky. 
But higher reeks to God most high 
The smoke of her iniquity: 

^^But oh, betwixt the green and blue 
To walk the hills that once we knew 
When you were pure and I was true^^ — • 
So rang the harps in Babylon — 

*'^0r ere along the roads of stone 
Had led ns captive one by one 
The subtle gods of Babylon.'' 

The harps hung up in Babylon 
Hung silent till the prophet dawn. 
When Judah's feet the highway burned 
Back to the holj- hills returned. 


And shook their dust on Babylon. 
In Zion's halls the wild harps rang, 
To Zion's walls their smitten clang, 
And lo! of Babylon they sang, 
They only sang of Babylon: 
^^ Jehovah, round whose throne of awe 
The vassal stars their orbits draw 
Within the circle of Thy law. 
Canst thou make nothing what is done. 
Or cause Thy servant to he one 
That has not been in Babylon, 
That has not known the power and pain 
Of life poured out like driven rain? 
I will go down and find again 
My soul that 's lost in Babylon,'' 

Arthur Colton, 


Live blindly and upon the hour. The Lord, 
Who was the Future, died full long ago. 
Knowledge which is the Past is folly. Go, 
Poor child, and be not to thyself abhorred. 
Around thine earth sun-winged winds do blow 
And planets roll; a meteor draws his sword; 
The rainbow breaks his seven-coloured chord 
And the long strips of river-silver flow: 
Awake! Give thyself to the lovely hours. 
Drinking their lips, catch thou the dream in flight 
About their fragile hairs' aerial gold. 
Thou art divine, thou livest, — as of old 
Apollo springing naked to the light. 
And all his island shivered into flowers. 

Trumbull Stickney, 



My heart was winter-bound until 

I heard you sing; 
O voice of Love, hush not, but fill 

My life with Spring! 

My hopes were homeless things before 

I saw your eyes; 
O smile of Love, close not the door 

To paradise! 

Mv dreams were bitter once, and then 

1 found them bliss; 
O lips of Love, give me again 

Your rose to kiss! 

Springtide of Love! The secret sweet 

Is ours alone; 
O heart of Love, at last you beat 

Against my own! 

Frank Dempster Sherman. 


Sweet is the highroad when the skylarks call, 

W^hen we and Love go rambling through the land. 

But shall we still walk gayly, hand in hand, 
At the road's turning and the twilight's fall? 
Then darkness shall divide us like a wall. 

And uncouth evil nightbirds flap their wings; 

The solitude of all created things 
Will creep upon us shuddering like a pall. 


This is the knowledge I have wrung from pain: 
We, yea, all lovers, are not one, but twain. 

Each by strange wisps to strange abysses drawn: 
But through the black immensity of night 
Love's little lantern, like a glowworm's, bright, 

May lead our steps to some stupendous dawn. 

George Sylvester Viereck. 


Squire Adam had two wives, they say. 
Two wives had he, for his delight. 

He kissed and clypt them all the day 
And clypt and kissed them all the nightc 
Now Eve like ocean foam was white 

And Lilith roses dipped in wine. 

But though they were a goodly sight 

No lady is so fair as mine. 

To Venus some folk tribute pay 

And Queen of Beauty she is hight, 
And Sainte Marie the world doth sway 

In cerule napery bedight. 

My wonderment these twain invite. 
Their comeliness it is divine. 

And yet I say in their despite, 
No lady is so fair as mine. 

Dame Helen caused a grievous fray, 
For love of her brave men did fight. 

The eyes of her made sages fey 

And put their hearts in woeful plight 


To her no rhymes will I indite, 
For her no garlands will I twine. 

Though she be made of flowers and light 
No lady is so fair as mine. 


Prince Eros, Lord of lovely might. 
Who on Olympus dost recline. 

Do I not tell the truth aright? 
No lady is so fair as mine. 

Joyce KilTner 


Oh, grieve not. Ladies, if at night 
Ye wake to feel your beauty going. 

It was a web of frail delight, 
Inconstant as an April snowing. 

In other eyes, in other lands. 

In deep fair pools, new beauty lingers. 
But like spent water in your hands 

It runs from your reluctant fingers. 

Ye shall not keep the singing lark 
That owes to earlier skies its duty. 

Weep not to hear along the dark 
The sound of your departing beautyc 

The fine and anguished ear of night 
Is tuned to hear the smallest sorrow. 

Oh, wait until the morning light! 
It may not seem so gone to-morrow! 


But honey-pale and rosy-red! 

Brief lights that made a little shining! 
Beautiful looks about us shed — 

They leave us to the old repining. 

Think not the watchful dim despair 

Has come to you the first, sweet-hearted [ 

For oh, the gold in Helen's hair! 

And how she cried when that departed! 

Perhaps that one that took the most. 
The swiftest borrower, wildest spender, 

May count, as we would not, the cost — 
And grow more true to us and tender. 

Happy are we if in his eyes 

We see no shadow of forgetting. 
Nay — if our star sinks in those skies 

We shall not wholly see its setting. 

Then let us laugh as do the brooks 
That such immortal vouth is ours. 

If memory keeps for them our looks 
As fresh as are the spring-time flowers. 

Oh, grieve not, Ladies, if at night 
Ye wake, to feel the cold December! 

Rather recall the early light 

And in your loved one's arms, remember. 

Anna Hempstead Branch 



I WOULD unto my fair restore 

A simple thing: 

The flushing cheek she had before! 


No more, no more. 

On our sad shore, 

The carmine grape, the moth's auroral wing. 

Ah, say how winds in flooding grass 

Unmoor the rose; 

Or guileful ways the salmon pass 

To sea, disclose: 

For so, alas. 

With Love, alas. 

With fatal, fatal Love a girlhood goes. 

Louise Imogen Guiney» 


When I am dead and over me bright April 

Shakes out her rain-drenched hair. 
Though you should lean above me broken-hearted, 

I shall not care. 

I shall have peace as leafy trees are peaceful. 

When rain bends down the bough, 
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted 

Than you are now. 

Sara Teasdale, 



Love came back at fall o' dew. 
Playing his old part; 
But I had a word or two 
That would break his heart. 

"He who comes at candlelight, 
That should come before. 
Must betake him to the night 
From a barred door." 

This the word that made us part 
In the fall o' dew; 

This the word that brake his heart — 
Yet it brake mine, too. 

Lizette Woodworth Reese. 


O LOVE that is not Love, but dear, so dear! 
That is not love because it goes full soon. 
Like flower born and dead within one moon. 

And yet is love, for that it comes too near 

The guarded fane where love alone may peer. 
Ere, like young spring by summer soon outshone, 
It trembles into death; yet comes anon 

As thoughts of spring will come though summer 'f 

O star prelusive to a dream more fair. 

Within my heart I '11 keep a heaven for thee 


Where thou mayst freely come and freely go, 
Touching with thy faint gold ere I am 'ware 
A twilight hope — a dawn I did not see — 
O love that is not Love, but nearly sol 

Olive Tilford Dargan. 


Breathe me the ancient words when I shall find 
Your spirit mine; if, seeking you, life wins 

New wonder, with old splendor let us bind 

Our hearts when Love's high sacrament begins. 

Exalt my soul with pomp and pageantry, 

Sing the eternal songs all lovers sing; 
Yea, when you come, gold let our vestments be, 

And lamps of silver let us softly swing. 

But if at last, (hark how I whisper. Love!) 

You from my temple and from me should turn, 

I pray you chant no psalm my grief above, 
Over the body of Pain let no light burn. 

Go forth in silence, quiet as a dove. 

Drift, with no sign, from our exultant place; 

We need no Ite at the death of Love, 

And none should come to look on Love's white face. 

Charles Hanson Towne. 


Grey rocks, and greyer sea, 
And surf along the shore — 



And in my heart a name 

My lips shall speak no more. 

The high and lonely hills 

Endure the darkening year — 

And in my heart endure 
A memory and a tear. 

Across the tide a sail 

That tosses, and is gone — 
And in my heart the kiss 

That longing dreams upon. 

Grey rocks, and greyer sea. 

And surf along the shore — 
And in my heart the face 

That I shall see no more. 

Charles G. D. Roberts, 


Grandmither, think not I forget, when I come back 

to town. 
An' wander the old ways again, an' tread them up and 

I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallows pass. 
Wi'out I mind how good ye were unto a little lass; 
I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night through 
Wi'out I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you. 
An' if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme. 
Mayhap 't is that I'd change wi' ye, and gie my bed 

for thine, 
Would like to sleep in thine. 


I never hear the summer winds among the roses 

Wi'out I wonder why it was ye loved the lassie so. 
Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a 

score — 
I never thought I should come back and ask ye now fol 

Grandmither, gie me your still white hands that lie 

upon your breast, 
For mine do beat the dark all night and never find me 

They grope among the shadows an' they beat the cold 

black air, 
They go seekin' in the darkness, an' they never find 

him there. 

They never find him there. 

Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may 

never see 
His own a-burnin' full o' love that must not shine for 

Grandmither, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the 

kirkvard snow, 
For mine be tremblin' wi' the wish that he must never 

Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I 

mav never hear 
My lad a-singin' in the night when I am sick wi* 

A-singin' when the moonlight over a' the land is 

white — 
Ah, God! I'll up and go to him, a-singin' in the night, 
A-callin' in the night. 


Grandmither, gie me your clay-cold heart, that has 

forgot to ache, 
For mine be fire wi'in my breast an' yet it cannot 

Wi' every beat it's callin' for things that must not 

be, — 
So can ye not let me creep in an' rest awhile by ye? 
A little lass afeard o' dark slept by ye years agone — 
An' she has found what night can hold 'twixt sunset 

an' the dawn: 
So when I plant the rose an' rue above your grave for 


y^'U know it's under rue an' rose that I would like to 
- That I would like to be. 

Willa Sibert Gather. 


When I am dead and sister to the dust; 
When no more avidly I drink the wine 
Of human love; w^hen the pale Proserpine 

Has covered me with poppies, and cold rust 

Has cut my lyre-strings, and the sun has thrust 
Me underground to nourish the world-vine, — 
Men shall discover these old songs of mine, 

And say : This woman lived — as poets must ! 

This woman lived and wore life as a sword 

To conquer wisdom; this dead woman read 
In the sealed Book of Love and underscored 


The meanings. Then the sails of faith she spread, 
And faring out for regions unexplored, 

Went singing down the River of the Dead. 

Elsa Barker, 


With cassock black, baret and book, 

Father Saran goes by; 
I think he goes to say a prayer 

For one who has to die. 

Even so, some day. Father Saran 

May say a prayer for me; 
Myself meanwhile, the Sister tells. 

Should pray unceasingly. 

They kneel who pray: how may I kneel 

Who face to ceiling lie. 
Shut out b}^ all that man has made 

From God who made the sky.^* 

They lift who pray — the low earth-born 

A humble heart to God: 
But O, my heart of clay is proud — 

True sister to the sod. 

I look into the face of God, 

They say bends over me; 
I search the dark, dark face of God — 

what is it I see.^ 


I see — who lie fast bound, who may 

Not kneel, who can but seek — 
I see mine own face over me. 

With tears upon its cheek. 


If my dark grandam had but known, 

Or yet my wild grandsir, 
Or the lord that lured the maid away 

That was my sad mother, 

O had they known, O had they dreamed 

What gift it was they gave, 
Would they have stayed their wild, wild lovCc 

Nor made my years their slave? 

Must they have stopped their hungry lips 
From love at thought of me? 

life, O life, how may we learn 
Thy strangest mystery? 

Nay, they knew not, as we scarce know; 

Their souls, O let them rest; 
My life is pupil unto pain — 

With him I make my quest. 

Ill -: 

My little soul I never saw, 
Nor can I count its days; 

1 do not know its wondrous law 
And yet I know its ways. 

O it is young as morning-hours. 
And old as is the night; 


O it has growth of budding flowers. 
Yet tastes my body's blight. 

And it is silent and apart, 

And far and fair and still, 
Yet ever beats within my heart. 

And cries within my will. 

And it is light and bright and strange. 

And sees life far away, 
Yet far with near can interchange 

And dwell within the day. 

My soul has died a thousand deaths. 

And yet it does not die; 
My soul has broke a thousand faiths. 

And yet it cannot lie; 

My soul — there's naught can make it less; 

My soul — there's naught can mar; 
Yet here it weeps with loneliness 

Within its lonely star. 

My soul — not any dark can bind, 

Nor hinder any hand, 
Yet here it weeps — long blind, long blind — 

And cannot understand. 

Grace Fallow Norton. 


I TRY to knead and spin, but my life is low the while.' 
Oh, I long to be alone, and walk abroad a mile: 


Yet if I walk alone, and think of naught at all, 
Why from me that's young should the wild tears fall? 

The shower-sodden earth, the earth-colored streams, 
They breathe on me awake, and moan to me in 

And yonder ivy fondling the broke castle-wall, 
It pulls upon my heart till the wild tears fall. 

The cabin-door looks down a furze-lighted hill. 
And far as Leighlin Cross the fields are green and still ; 
But once I hear the blackbird in Leighlin hedges call. 
The foolishness is on me, and the wild tears fall! 

Louise Imogen Guiney, 


My heart it was a cup of gold 
That at his lip did long to lie. 
But he hath drunk the red wine down. 
And tossed the goblet by. 

My heart it was a floating bird 

That through the world did wander free. 

But he hath locked it in a cage. 

And lost the silver key. 

My heart it was a white, white rose 
That bloomed upon a broken bough, 
He did but wear it for an hour. 
And it is withered now. 

Josephine Dodge Daskam, 



"Four winds blowing thro' the sky, 

You have seen poor maidens die, 

Tell me then what I shall do 

That my lover may be true." 

Said the wind from out the south, 
**Lay no kiss upon his mouth," 

And the wind from out the west, 
"Wound the heart within his breast," 

And the wind from out the east, 
"Send him empty from the feast,'* 

And the wind from out the north, 
"In the tempest thrust him forth; 

When thou art more cruel than he, 

Then will Love be kind to thee." 

Sara Teasdale. 


Then, lady, at last thou art sick of my sighing. 

Good-bye ! 
So long as I sue, thou wilt still be denying? 

Ah, well! shall I vow then to serve thee forever. 
And swear no unkindness our kinship can sever? 
Nay, nay, dear my lass! here's an end of endeavor. 


ifet let no sweet ruth for my misery grieve thee. 

Good-bye ! 
The man who has loved knows as well how to leave 



The gorse is enkindled, there's bloom on the heather. 
And love is my joy, but so too is fair weather; 
I still ride abroad though we ride not together. 

Good-bye ! 

My horse is my mate; let the wind be my master. 

Though Care may pursue, yet my hound follows faster. 

Good-bye ! 
Th^ red deer's a-tremble in coverts unbroken. 
He hears the hoof- thunder; he scents the death-token. 
Shall I mope at home, under vows never spoken? 

Good-bye ! 

The brown earth's my book, and I ride forth to read it. 

Good-bye ! 
The stream runneth fast, but my will shall outspeed it. 

Good-bye ! 
I love thee, dear lass, but I hate the hag Sorrow. 
As sun follows rain, and to-night has its morrow. 
So I'll taste of joy, though I steal, beg, or borrow! 

Good -bye ! 

Alice Brown, 


Who shall declare the joy of the running! 

Who shall tell of the pleasures of flight! 
Springing and spurning the tufts of wild heather, 

Sweeping, wide-winged, through the blue dome of 
Everything mortal has moments immortal. 

Swift and God-gifted, immeasurably bright. 


So with the stretch of the white road b^ore me. 

Shining snow crystals rainbowed by the sun. 
Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue 
Strong with the strengtli of my horse as we run. 
Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight! 
Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one. 

Amy L:i:dl. 


Hz A?. 7 :ree. hand free. 

Blue above, brown under. 
All the world to me 

Is a place of wonder. 
Sun shine, mocm shine. 

Stars, and winds a-blowing. 
All into this heart of mine 

flowing, flowing, flowing! 

Mind free, step free. 

Davs to follow after, 
Joys of life sold to me 

For the price of laughter. 
Gill's love, man's love, 

Ix)ve of work and duty. 
Just a will of God's to prove 

Beauty, beauty, beauty! 

WUUam Stanley BrmAwmte, 


How often in the summer-tide. 
His graver busine^ set aside. 


Has stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed, 
As to the pipe of Pan, 
Stepped blithesomely with lover's pride 
Across the fields to Anne. 

It must have been a merry mile, 
This summer stroll by hedge and stile. 
With sweet foreknowledge all the while 
How sure the pathway ran 
To dear delights of kiss and smile. 
Across the fields to Anne. 

The silly sheep that graze to-day, 

I wot, they let him go his way. 

Nor once looked up, as who should say; 

It is a seemly man." 

For many lads went wooing aye 

Across the fields to Anne. 


The oaks, they have a wiser look; 
Mayhap they whispered to the brooks 
'The world by him shall yet be shook. 
It is in nature's plan; 
Though now he fleets like any rook 
Across the fields to Anne." 

And I am sure, that on some hour 
Coquetting soft 'twixt sun and shower. 
He stooped and broke a daisy-flower 
With heart of tiny span. 
And bore it as a lover's dower 
Across the fields to Anne, 


While from her cottage garden-bed 
She plucked a jasmine's goodlihede. 
To scent his jerkin's brown Lostead; 
Now since that love began, 
\Miat luckier swaiu than he who sped 
Across the fields to Anne? 

The winding path whereon I pace. 

The hedgerow's green, the summer's grace; 

Are still before me face to face; 

Methinks I almost can 

Turn p>oet and join the singing race 

Across the fields to Anne I 

Richard BurUm. 


The httle Road savs. Go, 
The httle House says. Stay: 
And O, it *s bonny here at home. 
But I must go away. 

The httle Road, like me. 
Would seek and turn and know; 
And forth I must, to learn the things 
The little Road would show! 

And go I must, my deary, 

And journey while I may. 

Though heart be sore for the httle House 

That had no word but Stay. 


Maybe, no other way 

Your child could ever know 

Why a little House would have you stay. 

When a little Road says, Go. 

Josephine Preston Peabodpo 


Its friendship and its carelessness 

Did lead me many a mile. 

Through goat's-rue, with its dim caress, 

And pink and pearl-white smile; 

Through crowfoot, with its golden lure, 

And promise of far things, 

And sorrel with its glance demure 

And wide-eyed wonderings. 

It led me with its innocence. 

As childhood leads the wise, 

With elbows here of tattered fence, 

And blue of wildflower eyes; 

With whispers low of leafy speech. 

And brook-sweet utterance; 

With bird-like words of oak and beech,. 

And whisperings clear as Pan's. 

It led me with its childlike charm. 

As candor leads desire. 

Now with a clasp of blossomy arm, 

A butterfly kiss of fire; 

Now with a toss of tousled gold, 

A barefoot sound of green. 


A breath of musk, of mossy mold. 
With vague allurements keen. 

It led me with remembered things 

Into an old-time vale, 

Peopled with faery glimmerings, 

And flower-like fancies pale; 

Where fungous forms stood, gold and gray. 

Each in its mushroom gown. 

And, roofed with red, glimpsed far away, 

A little toadstool town. 

It led me with an idle ease, 

A vagabond look and air, 

A sense of ragged arms and knees 

In weeds grown everywhere; 

It led me, as a gypsy leads. 

To dingles no one knows. 

With beauty burred with thorny seeds, 

And tangled wild with rose. 

It led me as simplicity 
Leads age and its demands. 
With bee-beat of its ecstasy, 
And berry-stained touch of hands; 
With round revealments, puff-ball white^ 
Through rents of weedy brown, 
And petaled movements of delight 
In roseleaf limb and gown. 

It led me on and on and on. 

Beyond the Far Away, 

Into a world long dead and gone, — 


The world of Yesterday: 
A faery world of memory. 
Old with its hills and streams. 
Wherein the child I used to be 
Still wanders with his dreams. 

Madison Cawein, 


Across the fields of yesterday 

He sometimes comes to me, 
A little lad just back from play — 

The lad I used to be. 

And yet he smiles s^ wistfully 

Once he has crept within, 
I wonder if he hopes to see 

The man I might have been. 

Thomas S. Jones, Jfc 


All I could see from where I stood 
Was three long mountains and a wood; 
I turned and looked another way. 
And saw three islands in a bay. 
So with my eyes I traced the line 
Of the horizon, thin and fine, 
Straight around till I was come 
Back to where I'd started from; 
And all I saw from where I stood 
Was three long mountains and a wood. 


Over these things I could not see; 
These were the things that bounded me; 
And I could touch them with my hand, 
Almost, I thought, from where 1 stand. 
And all at once things seemed so small 
My breath came short, and scarce at all. 
But, sure, the sky is big, I said; 
Miles and miles above mv head: 
So here upon my back I'll lie 
And look my fill into the sky. 
And so I looked, and, after all, 
The sky was not so very tall. 
The sky, I said, must somewhere stop, 
And — sure enough ! — I see the top ! 
The sky, I thought, is not so grand; 
I 'most could touch it with my hand! 
And, reaching up my hand to try, 
I screamed to feel it touch the sky. 

I screamed, and — lo ! — Infinity 

Came down and settled over me; 

And, pressing of the Undefined 

The definition on mv mind, 

Held up before my eyes a glass 

Through which my shrinking sight did pass 

Until it seemed I must behold 

Immensitv made manifold: 

^\hispe^ed to me a word whose sound 

Deafened the air for worlds around, 

And brought unmuffled to my ears 

The gossiping of friendly spheres. 

The creaking of the tented sky. 

The ticking of Eternity. 


I saw and heard, and knew at last 

The How and Why of all things, past. 

And present, and forevermore. 

The universe, cleft to the core. 

Lay open to my probing sense 

That, sick'ning, I w^ould fain pluck thence 

But could not, — nay! But needs must suck 

At the great wound, and could not pluck 

My lips away till I had drawn 

All venom out. — Ah, fearful pawn! 

For my omniscience paid I toll 

In infinite remorse of soul. 

All sin was of my sinning, all 

Atoning mine, and mine the gall 

Of all regret. Mine was the weight 

Of every brooded wrong, the hate 

That stood behind each envious thrust, 

Mine every greed, mine every lust. 

And all the while for every grief. 

Each sufiPering, I craved relief 

With individual desire, — 

Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire 

About a thousand people craw^l; 

Perished with each, — then mourned for all! 

A man was starving in Capri; 

He moved his eyes and looked at me; 

I felt his gaze, I heard his moan, 

And knew his hunger as my own. 

I saw at sea a great fog-bank 

Between two ships that struck and sank; 

A thousand screams the heavens smote: 

And every scream tore through my throat. 

No hurt I did not feel, no death 


That was not mine; mine each last breath 
That, crying, met an answering cry 
From the compassion that was I. 
All suffering mine, and mine its rod; 
Mine, pity Hke the pity of God. 
Ah, awful weight! Infinity 
Pressed down upon the finite Me! 
My anguished spirit, like a bird. 
Beating against my lips I heard* 
Yet lay the weight so close about 
There was no room for it without. 
And so beneath the Weight lay I 
And suffered death, but could not die. 

Long had I lain thus, craving death, 
"VMien quietly the earth beneath 
Gave way, and inch by inch, so great 
At last had grown the crushing weight. 
Into the earth I sank till I 
Full six feet under ground did lie, 
And sank no more, — there is no weight 
Can follow here, however great. 
From off my breast I felt it roll, 
And as it went my tortured soul 
Burst forth and fled in such a gust 
That all about me swirled the dust. 

Deep in the earth I rested now; 
Cool is its hand upon the brow 
And soft its breast beneath the head 
Of one who is so gladly dead. 
And all at once, and over all. 
The pitying rain began to fall; 


I lay and heard each pattering hoof 
Upon my lowly, thatched roof, 
And seemed to love the sound far more 
Than ever I had done before. 
For rain it hath a friendly sound 
To one who's six feet underground; 
And scarce the friendly voice or face: 
A grave is such a quiet place. 

The rain, I said, is kind to come 
And speak to me in my new home. 
I would I were alive again 
To kiss the fingers of the rain. 
To drink into my eyes the shine 
Of every slanting silver line. 
To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze 
From drenched and dripping apple-treeSo 
For soon the shower will be done. 
And then the broad face of the sun 
Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth 
Until the world with answering mirth 
Shakes joyously, and each round drop 
Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top^ 
How can I bear it; buried here. 
While overhead the sky grows clear 
And blue again after the storm .^^ 
O, multi-colored, multiform, 
Beloved beauty over me. 
That I shall never, never see 
Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold. 
That I shall never more behold! 
Sleeping your myriad magics through, 
Close-sepulchred away from you! 


God, I cried, give me new birth, 
And put me back upon the earth! 
Upset each cloud's gigantic gourd 
And let the heavy rain, down-poured 
In one big torrent, set me free. 
Washing my grave away from me! 

1 ceased ; and, through the breathless hush 
That answered me, the far-off rush 

Of herald wings came whispering 
Like music down the vibrant string 
Of my ascending prayer, and — crash! 
Before the wild wind's whistling lash 
The startled storm-clouds reared on high 
And plunged in terror down the sky. 
And the big rain in one black wave 
Fell from the sky and struck my grave. 

I know not how such things can be 
I only know there came to me 
A fragrance such as never clings 
To aught save happy living things; 
A sound as of some joyous elf 
Singing sweet songs to please himself. 
And, through and over everything, 
A sense of glad awakening. 
The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear. 
Whispering to me I could hear; 
I felt the rain's cool finger-tips 
Brushed tenderly across my lips. 
Laid gently on my sealed sight, 
And all at once the heavy night 
Fell from my eyes and I could see, — 


A drenched and dripping apple-tree, 
A last long line of silver rain, 
A sky grown clear and blue again. 
And as I looked a quickening gust 
Of wind blew up to me and thrust 
Into my face a miracle 
Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, — = 
I know not how such things can be ! — 
I breathed my soul back into me. 
Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I 
And hailed the earth with such a cry 
As is not heard save from a man 
Who has been dead, and lives again. 
About the trees my arms I wound; 
Like one gone mad I hugged the ground " 
I raised my quivering arms on high; 
I laughed and laughed into the sky, 
Till at my throat a strangling sob 
Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb 
Sent instant tears into mv eves; 

God, I cried, no dark disguise 
Can e'er hereafter hide from me 
Thy radiant identity! 

Thou canst not move across the grass 
But my quick eyes will see Thee pass, 
Nor speak, however silently. 
But my hushed voice will answer TheCo 

1 know the path that tells Thy way 
Through the cool eve of every day; 
God, I can push the grass apart 
And lay my finger on Thy heart! 

The world stands out on either side 
No wider than the heart is wide; 


Above the world is stretched the sky, — 
No higher than the soul is high. 
The heart can push the sea and land 
Farther away on either hand; 
The soul can split the sky in two, 
And let the face of God shine through. 
But East and West will pinch the heart 
That cannot keep them pushed apart; 
And he whose soul is flat — the sky 
Will cave in on him by and by. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay= 


My Soul goes clad in gorgeous things. 

Scarlet and gold and blue; 
And at her shoulder sudden wings 

Like long flames flicker through. 

And she is swallow-fleet, and free 

From mortal bonds and bars. 
She laughs, because Eternity 

Blossoms for her with stars! 

O folk who scorn my stiff gray gown, 

Mv dull and foolish face, — 
Can ye not see my Soul flash down, 

A singing flame through space .^ 

And folk, whose earth-stained looks I hate. 

Why may I not di\'ine 
Your Souls, that must be passionate. 

Shining and swift, as mine! 

Fannie Stearns Davis. 



Then that dread angel near the awful throne. 
Leaving the seraphs ranged in flaming tiers, 
Winged his dark way through those unpinioned 

Ind on the void's black beetling edge, alone. 

Stood with raised wings, and listened for the tone 
Of God's command to reach his eager ears. 
While Chaos wavered, for she felt her years 

Unsceptered now in that convulsive zone. 

Night trembled. And as one hath oft beheld 
A lamp within a vase light up its gloom. 
So God's voice lighted him, from heel to plume: 

**Let there be light!" It said, and Darkness, quelled. 
Shrunk noiseless backward in her monstrous womb 

Through vasts un winnowed by the wings of eld! 

Lloyd Mifflin. 



Wny do you seek the sun. 
In your Bubble-Crown ascending ? 
Your chariot will melt to mist. 
Your crown will have an ending.'^ 
Nay, sun is but a Bubble, 
Earth is a whiff of Foam — 
To my caves on the coast of Thule 
Each night I call them home. 
Thence Faiths blow forth to angelg 
And Loves blow forth to men — 
They break and turn to nothing 
And I make them whole again: 


On the crested waves of chaos 
I ride them back reborn: 
New stars I bring at evening 
For those that burst at morn: 
My soul is the wind of Thule 
And evening is the sign. 
The sun is but a Bubble, 
A fragile child of mine." 

Nicholas Vachel Lindsay ^ 


{After Hafiz) 

A CARAVAN from China comes; 

For miles it sweetens all the air 
With fragrant silks and dreaming gums, 

Attar and myrrh — 
A caravan from China comes. 

O merchant, tell me what you bring, 
With music sweet of camel bells; 

How long have you been travelling 
With these sweet smells.'^ 

O merchant, tell me what you bring. 

A lovely lady is my freight, 
A lock escaped of her long hair, — 

That is this perfume delicate 
That fills the air — 

A lovely lady is my freight. 

Her face is from another land, 
I think she is no mortal maid, =- 


Her beauty, like some ghostly hand. 

Makes me afraid; 
Her face is from another land. 

The little moon my cargo is, 

About her neck the Pleiades 
Clasp hands and sing; Hafiz, 't is this 

Perfumes the breeze — 
The little moon my cargo is. 

Richard Le Gallienne, 


As I came down from Lebanon, 

Came winding, wandering slowly down 

Through mountain passes bleak and brownr 

The cloudless day was well-nigh done. 

The city, like an opal set 

In emerald, showed each minaret 

Afire with radiant beams of sun, 

And glistened orange, fig, and lime, 

Where song-birds made melodious chime. 

As I came down from Lebanon. 

As I came down from Lebanon, 
Like lava in the dying glow. 
Through olive orchards far below 
I saw the murmuring river run; 
And 'neath the wall upon the sand 
Swart sheiks from distant Samarcand, 
With precious spices they had won, 
Lay long and languidly in wait 
Till they might pass the guarded gate. 
As I came down from Lebanon, 


As I came down from Lebanon, 
I saw strange men from lands afar, 
In mosque and square and gay bazar. 
The Magi that the Moslem shun, 
And grave Effendi from Stamboul, 
Who sherbet sipped in corners cool; 
And, from the balconies o'errun 
With roses, gleamed the eyes of those 
Who dwell in still seraglios, 
As I came down from Lebanon. 

As I came down from Lebanon, 
The flaming flower of daytime died. 
And Night, arrayed as is a bride 
Of some great king, in garments spun 
Of purple and the finest gold, 
Outbloomed in glories manifold, 
Until the moon, above the duri 
And darkening desert, void of shade, 
Shone like a keen Damascus blade. 
As I came down from Lebanon. 

Clinton Scollard. 



Memphis and Karnak, Luxor, Thebes, the Nile: 
Of these your letters told ; and I who read 
Saw loom on dim horizons Egypt's dead 

In march across the desert, mile on mile, 

A ghostly caravan in slow defile 

Between the sand and stars; and at their head 
From unmapped darkness into darkness fled 

The gods that Egypt feared a little while. 


There black against the night I saw them loom 
With captive kings and armies in array 

Remembered only by their scupl tared doom, 
And thought: What Egypt was are we to-day. 

Then rose obscure against the rearward gloom 
The march of Empires yet to pass away. 


I looked in vision down the centuries 

And saw how Athens stood a sunlit while 
A sovereign city free from greed and guile, 

The half -embodied dream of Pericles. 

Then saw I one of smooth words, swift to pleascp 
At laggard virtue mock with shrug and smile; 
With Cleon's creed rang court and peristyle, 

Then sank the sun in far Sicilian seas. 

From brows ignoble fell the violet crown. 
Again the warning sounds; the hosts engage: 
In Cleon's face we fling our battle gage. 

We win as foes of Cleon loud renown; 

But while we think to build the coming age 

The laurel on our brows is turning brown. 


We top the poisonous blooms that choke the state, 
At flower and fruit our flashing strokes are made, 
The whetted scythe on stalk and stem is laid. 

But deeper must we strike to extirpate 

The rooted evil that within our gate 

Will sprout again and flourish, branch and blade; 
For only from within can ill be stayed 

While Adam's seed is unregenerate. 


With zeal redoubled let our strength be strained 
To cut the rooted causes where they hold, 
Nor spend our sinews on the fungus mold 

^lien all the breeding marshes must be drained. 
Be this our aim; and let our youth be trained 
To honor virtue more than place and gold. 


A hundred cities sapped by slow decay, 
A hundred codes and systems proven vain 
Lie hearsed in sand upon the heaving plain- 
Memorial ruins mounded, still and gray; 
And we who plod the barren waste to-day 
Another code evolving, think to gain 
Surcease of man's inheritance of pain 
And mold a state immune from evil's sway. 

Not laws; but virtue in the soul we need, 
The old Socratic justice in the heart, 

The golden rule become the people's creed 

When years of training have performed their part 
For thus alone in home and church and mart 

Can evil perish and the race be freed. 

Louis V, Led OUT-. 


Sargon is dust, Semiramis a clod ! 

In crypts profaned the moon at midnight peers; 

The owl upon the Sphinx hoots in her ears. 
And scant and sear the desert grasses nod 
Where once the armies of Assyria trod, 


■ ■»■ ■ — ■ — . — . 

With younger sunlight splendid on the spears; 
The lichens cling the closer with the years, 
And seal the eyelids of the weary god. 

Where high the tombs of royal Egypt heave, 
The vulture shadows with arrested wings 
The indecipherable boast of kings, 

As Arab children hear their mother's cry 

And leave in mockery their toy — they leave 

The skull of Pharaoh staring at the sky. 

George Sterling. 


{Which is the next highest of mountains) 

O WHITE Priest of Eternity, around 
Whose lofty summit veiling clouds arise 
Of the earth's immemorial sacrifice 
To Brahma in whose breath all lives and dies; 
O Hierarch enrobed in timeless snows. 
First-born of Asia whose maternal throes 
Seem changed now to a million human woes, 
Holy thou art and still ! Be so, nor sound 
One sigh of all the mystery in thee found. 


For in this world too much is overclear. 
Immortal Ministrant to many lands. 
From whose ice-altars flow to fainting sands 
Rivers that each libation poured expands. 


Too much is known, O Ganges-giving sire! 
Thy people fathom life and find it dire, 
Thy people fathom death, and, in it, fire 
To live again, though in Illusion's sphere. 
Behold concealed as Grief is in a tear. 


Wherefore continue, still enshrined, thy rites. 
Though dark Thibet, that dread ascetic, falls 
In strange austerity, whose trance appalls, 
Before thee, and a suppliant on thee calls. 
Continue still thy silence high and sure, 
That something beyond fleeting may endure — = 
Something that shall forevermore allure 
Imagination on to mystic flights 
Wherein alone no wing of Evil lights. 


Yea, wrap thy awful gulfs and acolytes 
Of lifted granite round with reachless snows. 
Stand for Eternity while pilgrim rows 
Of all the nations envj^ thy repose. 
Ensheath thy swart sublimities, unsealed. 
Be that alone on earth which has not failed. 
Be that which never yet has yearned or ailed. 
But since primeval Power upreared thy heights 
Has stood above all deaths and all delights. 


And though thy loftier Brother shall be King, 
High-priest art thou to Brahma unrevealed, 
While thy white sanctity forever sealed 


In icy silence leaves desire congealed. 

In ghostly ministrations to the sun, 

And to the mendicant stars and the moon-nun, 

Be holy still, till East to West has run, 

And till no sacrificial suffering 

On any shrine is left to tell life's sting. 

Cale Young Rice. 




A'i the gate of the West I stand. 
On the isle where the nations throng. 
We call them **scum o' the earth"; 

Stay, are we doing you wrong. 

Young fellow from Socrates' land? — 

You, like a Hermes so lissome and strong 

Fresh from the Master Praxiteles' hand? 

So you're of Spartan birth? 

Descended, perhaps, from one of the band — 

Deathless in story and song — 

Who combed their long hair at Thermopylae's pass? 

Ah, I forget the straits, alas! 

More tragic than theirs, more compassion-worth. 

That have doomed you to march in our ** immigrant 

WTiere you 're nothing but "scum o' the earth." 


You Pole with the child on your knee. 

What dower bring you to the land of the free? 


Hark! does she croon 

That sad Httle tune 

That Chopin once found on his Polish lea 

And mounted in gold for you and for me? 

Now a ragged young fiddler answers 

In wild Czech melody 

That Dvorak took whole from the dancers. 

And the heavy faces bloom 

In the wonderful Slavic way; 

The little, dull eyes, the brows a-gloom, 

Suddenly dawn like the daj'. 

While, watching these folk and their mystery, 

I forget that they're nothing worth; 

That Bohemians, Slovaks, Croatians, 

And men of all Slavic nations 

Axe *'polacks" — and *'scum o' the earth." 


Genoese boy of the level brow. 

Lad of the lustrous, dreamy eyes 

A-stare at Manhattan's pinnacles now 

In the first sweet shock of a hushed surprise; 

Within your far-rapt seer's eyes 

I catch the glow of the wild surmise 

That played on the Santa Maria's prow 

In that still gray dawn. 

Four centuries gone, 

^Mien a world from the wave began to rise. 

Oh, it's hard to foretell what high emprise 

Is the goal that gleams 

When Italy's dreams 

Spread wing and sweep into the skies. 


Csesar dreamed him a world ruled well; 

Dante dreamed Heaven out of Hell; 

Angelo brought us there to dwell; 

And you, are you of a different birth? — 

You're only a "dago," — and "scum o' the earth"! 


Stay, are we doing you wrong 

Calling you **scum o' the earth," 

Man of the sorrow-bowed head. 

Of the features tender yet strong, — 

Man of the eyes full of wisdom and mystery 

Mingled with patience and dread? 

Have not I known you in history. 

Sorrow-bowed head? 

Were you the poet-king, w^orth 

Treasures of Ophir unpriced? 

Were you the prophet, perchance, whose art 

Foretold how the rabble would mock 

That shepherd of spirits, erelong, 

Who should carry the lambs on his heart 

And tenderly feed his flock? 

Man — lift that sorrow-bowed head. 

Lo ! 't is the face of the Christ ! 

The vision dies at its birth. 
You're merely a butt for our mirth. 
You're a "sheeny" — and therefore despised 
And rejected as "scum o' the earth." 


Countrymen, bend and invoke 
Mercy for us blasphemers, 


For that we spat on these marvelous folk. 

Nations of darers and dreamers, 

Scions of singers and seers, 

Our peers, and more than our peers. 

** Rabble and refuse," we name them 

And "scum o' the earth," to shame them. 

Mercy for us of the few, young years, 

Of the culture so callow and crude, 

Of the hands so grasping and rude. 

The lips so ready for sneers 

At the sons of our ancient more-than-peers. 

Mercy for us who dare despise 

Men in whose loins our Homer lies; 

Mothers of men who shall bring to us 

The glory of Titian, the grandeur of Huss; 

Children in whose frail arms shall rest 

Prophets and singers and saints of the West. 

Newcomers all from the eastern seas. 
Help us incarnate dreams like these. 
Forget, and forgive, that we did j^ou wrong. 
Help us to father a nation, strong 
In the comradeship of an equal birth. 
In the wealth of the richest bloods of earth. 

Robert Haven Schauffler. 


To-day ees com' from Eetaly 

A boy ees leeve een Rome, 
An' he ees stop an' speak weeth me — 

I weesh he stay at home. 


He stop an' say "Hallo," to me. 

An' w'en he standin' dere 
I smal da smal of Eetaly 

Steell steeckin' een hees hair, 
Dat com' weeth heem across da sea. 

An' een da clo'es he wear. 

Da peopla bomp heem een da street, 
Da noise ees scare he^m, too; 

He ees so clumsy een da feet 
He don't know w'at to do, 

Dere ees so many theeng he meet 
Dat ees so strange, so new. 

He sheever an' he ask eef here 

Eet ees so always cold. 
Den een hees eye ees com' a tear — 

He ees no vera old — 
An', oh, hees voice ees soun' so queei 

I have no heart for scold. 

He look up een da sky so gray, 

But oh, hees eye ees be 
So far away, so far away. 

An' w'at he see I see. 
Da sky eet ees no gray to-day 

At home een Eetaly. 

He see da glada peopla sect 
Where warma shine da sky — 

Oh, while he eesa look at eet 
He ees baygeen to cry. 

Eef I no growl an' swear a beet 
So, too, my fraud, would I. 


Oh, why he stop an' speak weeth me. 
Dees boy dat leeve een Rome, 

An' com' to-day from Eetaly? 
I weesh he stay at home. 

TJiomas Augustine Daly, 


We are they that go, that go, 
Plunging before the hidden blow. 
We rmi the byways of the earth, 
For we are fugitive from birth, 
Blindfolded, with wide hands abroad 
That sow, that sow the sullen sod. 

We cannot wait, we cannot stop 
For flushing field or quickened crop; 
The orange bow of dusky dawn 
Glimmers our smoking swath upon; 
Blindfolded still we hurry on. 

How we do know the ways we run 
That are blindfolded from the sun? 
We stagger swiftly to the call. 
Our wide hands feeling for the wall. 

Oh, ye who climb to some clear heaven. 
By grace of day and leisure given. 
Pity us, fugitive and driven — 
The lithe whip curling on our track. 
The headlong haste that looks not back! 

Florence Wilkinson, 



We are the toilers from whom God barred 
The gifts that are good to hold. 

We meant full well and we tried full hard. 
And our failures were manifold. 

And we are the clan of those whose kin 
Were a millstone dragging them down. 

Yea, we had to sweat for our brother's siOs 
And lose the victor's crown. 

The seeming-able, who all but scored. 
From their teeming tribe we come: 

What was there wrong with us, O Lord, 
That our lives were dark and dumb? 

The men ten-talented, who still 

Strangely missed of the goal. 
Of them we are : 'it seems Thy will 

To harrow some in soul. 

We are the sinners, too, whose lust 

Conquered the higher claims, 
We sat us prone in the common dust. 

And played at the devil's games. 

We are the hard-luck folk, who strove 

Zealously, but in vain; 
We lost and lost, while our comrades throve. 

And still we lost again. 

We are the doubles of those whose way 
Was festal with fruits and flowers; 


Body and brain we were sound as they, 
But the prizes were not ours. 

A mighty army our full ranks make, 

We shake the graves as we go; 
The sudden stroke and the slow heartbreak, 

They both have brought us low. 

And while we are laying life's sword aside. 

Spent and dishonored and sad, 
Our epitaph this, when once we have died: 
"The weak lie here, and the bad." 

We wonder if this can be really the close. 

Life's fever cooled by death's trance; 
And we cry, though it seem to our dearest of foes.. 
**God, give us another chance!" 

Richard Burton, 


They went forth to battle, but they always fell; 
Their eves were fixed above the sullen shields; 
Nobly they fought and bravely, but not well, 
And sank heart-wounded by a subtle spell. 
They knew not fear that to the foeman yields, 
They were not weak, as one who vainly wields 
A futile weapon; yet the sad scrolls tell 
How on the hard-fought field they always fell. 

It was a secret music that they heard, 
A sad sweet plea for pity and for peace; 


And that which pierced the heart was but a word, 
Though the white breast was red-hpped where the sword 
Pressed a fierce cruel kiss, to put surcease 
On its hot thirst, but drank a hot increase. 
Ah, they by some strange troubUng doubt were stirred, 
And died for hearing what no foeman heard. 

They went forth to battle but they always fell; 

Their might was not the might of lifted spears; 
Over the battle-clamor came a spell 
Of troubling music, and they fought not well. 

Their wreaths are willows and their tribute, tears; 

Their names are old sad stories in men's ears; 
Yet they will scatter the red hordes of Hell, 
Who went to battle forth and always fell. 

Shaemas SheeL 


(John P. Altgeld) 

Sleep softly . . . eagle forgotten . . . under the stone. 
Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its 

"We have buried him now," thought your foes, and in 

secret rejoiced. 
They made a brave show of their mourning, their 

hatred unvoiced. 
They had snarled at you, barked at you, foamed at you, 

day after day. 
Now you were ended. They praised you . . . and laid 

you away. 
The others, that mourned you in silence and terror and 



^ ■■ . ■-■■■■ ■ , _ ._ I i^^p 

The widow bereft of her crust, and the boy without 

The mocked and the scorned and the wounded, the 

lame and the poor. 
That should have remembered forever, . . . remember 

no more. 
Where are those lovers of yours, on what name do they 

The lost, that in armies wept over your funeral pall? 
They call on the names of a hundred high-valiant 

A hundred white eagles have risen, the sons of your 

The zeal in their wrings is a zeal that your dreaming 

The valor that wore out your soul in the service of man. 
Sleep softly . . . eagle forgotten . . . under the stone. 
Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its 

Sleep on, O brave-hearted, O wise man that kindled 

the flame — 
To live in mankind is far more than to live in a name, 
To live in mankind, far, far more than to live in a 

name ! — 

Nicholas Vachel Lindsay. 


Oh, Agathocles, fare thee well! 

Naked and brave thou goest 
Without one glance behind! 

Hast thou no fear, Agathocles, 
Or backward grief of mind? 


The dreamy dog beside thee 

Presses against thy knee; 
He, too, oh, sweet Agathocles, 

Is deaf and visioned hke thee. 

Thou art so hthe and lovely 

And yet thou art not ours. 
What Delphic saying compels thee 

Of kings or topless towers? 

That little blowing mantle 

Thou losest from thine arm — 
No shoon nor staff, Agathocles, 

Nor sword, to fend from harm! 

Thou hast the changed impersonal 

Awed brow of mystery — 
Yesterday thou wast burning. 

Mad boy, for Glaucoe. 

Philis thy mother calls thee: 

Mine eyes with tears are dim. 
Turn once, look once, Agathocles — 

{The gods have blinded him,) 

Come back, Agathocles, the night — 
Brings thee what place of rest? 

Wine-sweet are Glaucoe's kisses. 
Flower-soft her budding breast. 

He seems to hearken, Glaucoe, 

He seems to listen and smile; 
{Nay, Philis, hut a god-song 

He follows this many a mile.) 


Come back, come back, Agathocles! 

(He scents the asphodel; 
Unearthly swifl he ruimeth,) 

Agathocles, farewell! 

Florence Wilkinson. 


Voice, with what emulous fire thou singest free hearts 

of old fashion, 
English scomers of Spain, sweeping the blue sea-way. 
Sing me the daring of life for life, the magnanimous 

Of man for man in the mean populous streets of 

To-day ! 

Hand, with what color and power thou eouldst show, 

in the ring hot-sanded. 
Brown Bestiarius holding the lean tawn tiger at bay. 
Paint me the wrestle of Toil with the wild-beast Want, 

bare-handed ; 
Shadow me forth a soul steadily facing To-day! 

Helen Gray Cone. 


{Written after seeing Millet's world-famous painting) 

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans 
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, 
The emptiness of ages in his face, 
And on his back the burden of the worid. 
WTio made him dead to rapture and despair, 
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, 


Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? 

Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? 

Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? 

Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? 

Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave 

To have dominion over sea and land; 

To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; 

To feel the passion of Eternity? 

Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns 

And marked their ways upon the ancient deep? 

Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf 

There is no shape more terrible than this — 

More tongued with censure of the world's blind 

greed — 
More filled with signs and portents for the soul — 
More fraught with menace to the universe. 

What gulfs between him and the seraphim! 
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him 
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? 
What the long reaches of the peaks of song, 
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? 
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; 
Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; 
Through this dread shape humanity betray ed^ 
Plundered, profaned and disinherited, 
Cries protest to the Judges of the World, 
A protest that is also prophecy. 

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands. 

Is this the handiw^ork you give to God, 

This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? 

How will you ever straighten up this shape; 


Touch it again with immortaHty; 
Give back the upward looking and the light; 
Rebuild in it the music and the dream; 
Make right the immemorial infamies. 
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? 

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, 
How will the Future reckon with this Man? 
How answer his brute question in that hour 
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? 
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings — 
With those who shaped him to the thing he is — 
When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, 
After the silence of the centuries? 

Edvxln Markharru 


Speak! said my soul, be stern and adequate; 
The sunset falls from Heaven, the year is late. 
Love waits with fallen tresses at thy gate 

And mourns for perished days. 
Speak! in the rigor of thy fate and mine. 
Ere these scant, dying days, bright-lipped with wine. 
All one by one depart, resigned, divine, 

Through desert, autumn ways. 

Speak! thou art lonely in thy chilly mind. 
With all this desperate solitude of wind, 
The solitude of tears that make thee blind. 

Of wild and causeless tears. 
3peak! thou hast need of me, heart, hand and head. 
Speak, if it be an echo of thy dread. 


A dirge of hope, of young illusions dead — 
Perchance God hears! 

George Cabot Lodge, 


(To Peary and his men, before the last expedition) 

Why sing the legends of the Holy Grail, 

The dead crusaders of the Sepulchre, 

While these men live? Are the great bards all dumb? 

Here is a vision to shake the blood of Song, 

And make Fame's watchman tremble at his post. 

What shall prevail against the spirit of man. 

When cold, the lean and snarling wolf of hunger. 

The threatening spear of ice-mailed Solitude, 

Silence, and space, and ghostly-footed Fear 

Prevail not? Dante, in his frozen hell 

Shivering, endured no bleakness like the void 

These men have warmed with their own flaming will. 

And peopled with their dreams. The wind from fierce 

Arcturus in their faces, at their backs 

The whip of the world's doubt, and in their souls 

Courage to die — if death shall be the price 

Of that cold cup that will assuage their thirst; 

They climb, and fall, and stagger toward the goal. 

They lay themselves the road whereby they travel. 

And sue God for a franchise. Does He watch 

Behind the lattice of the boreal lights? 

In that grail-chapel of their stern-vowed quest. 

Ninety of God's long paces toward the North, 

Will they behold the splendor of His face? 


To conquer the world must man renounce the world? 

These have renounced it. Had ye only faith 

Ye might move mountains, said the Nazarene. 

Why, these have faith to move the zones of man 

Out to the point where All and Nothing meet. 

They catch the bit of Death between their teeth, 

In one wild dash to trample the unknown 

And leap the gates of knowledge. They have dared 

Even to defy the sentinel that guards 

The doors of the forbidden — dared to hurl 

Their breathing bodies after the Ideal, 

That like the heavenly kingdom must be taken 

Only by violence. The star that leads 

The leader of this quest has held the world 

True to its orbit for a million years. 

And shall he fail.^ They never fail who light 

Their lamp of faith at the unwavering flame 

Burnt for the altar service of the Race 

Since the beginning. He shall find the strange — 

The white immaculate Virgin of the North, 

Whose steady gaze no mortal ever dared. 

Whose icy hand no human ever grasped. 

In the dread silence and the solitude 

She waits and listens through the centuries 

For one indomitable, destined soul. 

Born to endure the glory of her eyes. 

And lift his warm lips to the frozen Grail. 

Elsa Barkefc 



Others endure Man's rule: he therefore deems 
I shall endure it — I, the unconquered Air! 
Imagines this triumphant strength may bear 

His paltry sway! yea, ignorantly dreams, 

Because proud Rhea now his vassal seems. 
And X'^eptune him obeys in billowy lair. 
That he a more sublime assault may dare. 

Where blown by tempest wild the vulture screams' 

Presumptuous, he mounts: I toss his bones 
Back from the height supernal he has braved: 

Ay, as his vessel nears my perilous zones, 

I blow the cockle-shell away like chaff 
And give him to the Sea he has enslaved. 

He founders in its depths; and then I laugh! 


Impregnable I held myself, secure 

Against intrusion. Who can measure Man? 

How should I guess his mortal will outran 
Defeat so far that danger could allure 
For its own sake.^ — that he would all endure, 

All sacrifice, all suffer, rather than 

Forego the daring dreams Olympian 
That prophesy to him of victory sure.^ 

Ah, tameless courage! — dominating power 
That, all attempting, in a deathless hour 

Made earth-born Titans godlike, in revolt! — 


Fear is the fire that melts Icarian wings: 
Who fears nor Fate, nor Time, nor what Time brings, 
May drive Apollo's steeds, or wield the thunderbolt! 

Florence Earle Coates. 


Who drives the horses of the sun 

Shall lord it but a day; 
Better the lowly deed were done, 

And kept the humble way. 

The rust will find the sword of fame, 

The dust will hide the crown; 
Ay, none shall nail so high his name 

Time will not tear it down. 

The happiest heart that ever beat 

Was in some quiet breast 
That found the common daylight sweet, 

And left to Heaven the rest. 

John Vance Cheney, 



To-day I saw the shop-girl go 

Down gay Broadway to meet her beau. 

Conspicuous, splendid, conscious, sweet. 
She spread abroad and took the street. 


And all that niceness would forbid. 
Superb, she smiled upon and did. 

Let other girls, whose happier days 
Preserve the perfume of their ways. 

Go modestly. The passing hour 
Adds splendor to their opening flowerc 

But from this child too swift a doom 
Must steal her prettiness and bloom. 

Toil and weariness hide the grace 
That pleads a moment from her face. 

So blame her not if for a day 

She flaunts her glories while she may. 

She half perceives, half understands, 
Snatching her gifts with both her handsc 

The little strut beneath the skirt 
That lags neglected in the dirt. 

The indolent swagger down the street — 
Who can condemn such happy feeti 

Innocent! vulgar — that's the truth! 
Yet with the darling wiles of youth! 

The bright, self-conscious eyes that stare 
With such hauteur, beneath such hair! 
Perhaps the men will find me fair! 


Charming and charmed, flippant, arrayed. 
Fluttered and foolish, proud, displayed, 
Infinite pathos of parade ! 

The bangles and the narrowed waist — 
The tinsled boa — forgive the taste ! 
Oh, the starved nights she gave for that. 
And bartered bread to buy her hat! 

She flows before the reproachful sage 
And begs her woman's heritage. 

Dear child, with the defiant eyes, 
Insolent with the half surmise 
We do not quite admire, I know 
How foresight frowns on this vain show! 

And judgment, wearily sad, may see 
No grace in such frivolity. 

Yet which of us was ever bold 

To worship Beauty, hungry and cold! 

Scorn famine down, proudly expressed 
Apostle to what things are best. 

Let him who starves to buy the food 
For his soul's comfort find her good. 

Nor chide the frills and furbelows 
That are the prettiest things she knows. 

Poet and prophet in God's eyes 
Make no more perfect sacrifice. 


Who knoivs beloie wint inw 

She eats widi Aem Use hr^isifi ^e^ w™^^ 

Poorwatf! Qnectf Ae 

That mmdiy aof^t ^sKt b*^ 

Amt want ad Mar! AtfastI 

Ooe beaotv ^sn/es few tliee ssd 

So let 115 love ajid Tiii«ier5~.jji«i — 
Whose hearts are iu'l-ien in Gui 5 zizxL 

And aB its fracrSe flonmeims. 



,De ?c f^r^f^r?? ?*eal: 


b Attie Tales wlicie d^ 
Wkal sylraB Aes. 2nd 

not kored Mr 

Ways wfaser 
la tihe deep cii ^ 


Great Pan is far, O mad estray, and these 

Bare walls that leap to heaven and hide the skies 

Are fanes men rear to other deities; 

Far to the east the haunted woodland lies, 

And cloudless still, from cyclad-dotted seas, 
Hymettus and the hills of Hellas rise. 

John Myers O'Hara, 


By seven vinevards on one hill 

We walked. The native wine 
In clusters grew beside us two, 

For your lips and for mine. 

When, *'Hark!" you said, — *' Was that a bell 
Or a bubbling spring we heard .^" 

But I was wise and closed my eyes 
And listened to a bird; 

For as summer leaves are bent and shake 

With singers passing through. 
So moves in me continuallv 

The winged breath of you. 

You tasted from a single vine 

And took from that vour fill — 
But I inclined to everv kind. 

All seven on one hill. 

Witter BynneTc 



The islands called me far away. 

The valleys called me home. 
The rivers with a silver voice 

Drew on my heart to come. 

The paths reached tendrils to my hair 

From every vine and tree. 
There was no refuge anywhere 

Until I came to thee. 

There is a northern cloud I know. 

Along a mountain crest; 
And as she folds her wings of mist. 

So I could make my rest. 

There is no chain to bind her so 

Unto that purple height; 
And she will shine and wander, slow. 

Slow, with a cloud's delight. 

Would she begone? She melts away, 

A heavenly joyous thing. 
Yet day will find the mountain whitCj, 

White-folded with her wing. 

As you may see, but half aware 

If it be late or soon, 
Soft breathing on the day-time air. 

The fair forgotten Moon. 

And though love cannot bind me, Lovep 
— Ah no ! — yet I could stay 

128 SONG 

Maybe, with wings forever spread, 
— Forever, and a day. 

Josephine Preston Peahody 


My love for thee doth take me unaware, 

y/hen most with lesser things my brain is wrought. 
As in some nimble interchange of thought 

The silence enters, and the talkers stare. 

Suddenly I am still and thou art there, 
A viewless visitant and unbesought, 
And all my thinking trembles into nought 

And all my being opens like a prayer. 

Thou art the lifted Chalice in mv soul, 

And I a dim church at the thought of thee; 
Brief be the moment, but the mass is said. 

The benediction like an aureole 

Is on my spirit, and shuddering through me 
A rapture like the rapture of the dead. 

Richard Hovey 


If love were but a little thing — 

Strange love, which, more than all, is great — 
One might not such devotion bring. 

Early to serve and late. 

If love were but a passing breath — 

Wild love — which, as God knows, is sweet — 

One might not make of life and death 

A pillow for love's feet. 

Florence Earle Coates. 

ONCE 129 


The hours I spent with thee, dear heart. 

Are as a string of pearls to me; 

I count them over, every one apart. 

My rosary. 

Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer. 

To still a heart in absence wrung; 
I tell each bead unto the end — and there 
A cross is hung. 

Oh, memories that bless — and burn ! 
Oh, barren gain — and bitter loss ! 
I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn 
To kiss the cross. 

To kiss the cross. 

Robert Cameron Rogers 


That day her eyes were deep as night» 
She had the motion of the rose. 
The bird that veers across the light, 
The waterfall that leaps and throws 
Its irised spindrift to the sun. 
She seemed a wind of music parsing oHc 

Alone I saw her that one day 
Stand in the window of my life. 
Her sudden hand melted away 
Under my lips, and without strife 


I held her in my arms awhile 

And drew into my lips her living smile, — 

Now many a day ago and year! 

Since when I dream and lie awake 

In summer nights to feel her near, 

And from the heavy darkness break 

Glitters, till all my spirit swims 

And her hand hovers on my shaking limbs. 

If once again before I die 

I drank the laughter of her mouth 

And quenched my fever utterly, 

I say, and should it cost my youth, 

'T were well ! for I no more should wait 

Hammering midnight on the doors of fate. 

Trumbull Stickney 


In the pain, in the loneliness of love, 

To the heart of mv sweet I fled. 
I knocked at the door of her living heart, 
"Let in — let in — " I said. 


What seek you here?" the voices cried, 
"You seeker among the dead" — 
"Herself I seek, herself I seek. 
Let in — let in!" I said. 

They opened the door of her living heart. 
But the core thereof was dead. 


They opened the core of her living heart — 
A worm at the core there fed. 

"Where is my sweet, where is my sweet?" 
"She is gone away, she is fled. 
Long years ago she fled away. 
She will never return," they said. 

John Hall JVheelocko 


Thy hands are like cool herbs that bring 
Balm to men's hearts, upon them laid; 
Thy lovely-petalled lips are made 

As any blossom of the spring. 

But in thine eyes there is a thing, 
O Love, that makes me half afraid. 

For they are old, those eyes . . . They gleam 
Between the waking and the dream 

With antique wisdom, like a bright 
Lamp strangled by the temple's veil. 

That beckons to the acolvte 
Who prays with trembling lips and pale 

In the long watches of the night. 

They are as old as Life. They were 
When proud Gomorrah reared its head 

A new-born city. They were there 
When in the places of the dead 

Men swathed the body of the Lord. 
They visioned Pa-wak raise the wall 


Of China. They saw Carthage fall 
And marked the grim Hun lead his horde. 

There is no secret anywhere 
Nor any joy or shame that lies 
Not writ somehow in those child -eyes 
Of thine, O Love, in some strange wise. 

Thou art the lad Endymion, 

And that great queen with spice and myrrh 

From Araby, whom Solomon 
Delighted, and the lust of her. 

The legions marching from the sea 
With Caesar's cohorts sang of thee. 

How thy fair head was more to him 
Than all the land of Italy. 
Yea, in the old days thou wast she 

Who lured Mark Antony from home 
To death and Egypt, seeing he 

Lost love when he lost Rome. 

Thou saw'st old Tubal strike the lyre, 
Yea, first for thee the poet hurled 

Defiance at God's starry choir! 

Thou art the romance and the fire. 
Thou art the pageant and the strife, 

The clamour, mounting high and higher. 
From all the lovers in the world 
To all the lords of love and life. 

Perhaps the passions of mankind 
Are but the torches mystical 



Lit by some spirit-hand to find 
The dweUing of the Master-Mind 
That knows the secret of it all, 
In the great darkness and the wind. 

We are the Candle, Love the Flame, 

Each little life-light flickers out. 
Love bides, immortally the same: 
When of life's fever we shall tire 
He will desert us and the fire 

Rekindle new in prince or lout. 

Twin-born of knowledge and of lust. 

He was before us, he shall be 
Indifferent still of thee and me. 
When shattered is life's golden cup. 
When thy young limbs are shrivelled up^ 
And when my heart is turned to dust. 

Nay, sweet, smile not to know at last 

That thou and I, or knave, or fool, 

Are but the involitient tool 
Of some world-purpose vague and vast. 
No bar to passion's fury set. 

With monstrous poppies spice the wine, 

For only drunk are we divine, 
And only mad shall we forget! 

George Sylvester Vtereck* 


The three ghosts on the lonesome road 

Spake each to one another. 
Whence came that stain about your mouth 


No lifted hand may cover?" 
"From eating of forbidden fruit. 
Brother, my brother." 

The three ghosts on the sunless road 

Spake each to one another, 
"Whence came that red burn on your foot 

No dust nor ash mav cover?" 
**I stamped a neighbor's hearth-flame out. 

Brother, my brother." 

The three ghosts on the windless road 

Spake each to one another, 
"Whence came that blood upon your hand 

No other hand may cover?" 
"From breaking of a woman's heart. 

Brother, my brother." 

"Yet on the earth clean men we walked, 
Glutton and Thief and Lover; 
White flesh and fair it hid our stains 
That no man might discover." 
^* Naked the soul goes up to God, 
Brother, my brother." 

Theodosia Garrison 


De massa ob de sheepfol' 
Dat guard de sheepfol' bin. 

Look out in de gloomerin' meadows 
Whar de long night rain begin — : 


So he call to de hirelin' shephe'd : 
**Is my sheep — is dey all come in?" 

Oh den, says de hirelin' shephe'd, 
"Dey's some, dey's black and thin. 
And some, dey 's po' ol' wedda's — 

But de res', dey's all brung in. 

But de res', dey's all brung in." 

Den de massa ob de sheepfol' 

Dat guard de sheepfol' bin. 
Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows 

Whar de long night rain begin — 
So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol', 

Callin' sof: "Come in! Come in!" 

Callin' sof: **Come in! Come in!'' 

Den up t'ro de gloomerin' meadows, 

T'ro de col' night rain an' win', 
An' up t'ro de gloomerin' rain-paf 

Whar de sleet fa' piercin' thin — 
De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol' 

Dey all comes gadder in' in. 
De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', 

Dey all comes gadderin' in ! 

Sarah Pratt McLean Greene, 


From their folded mates they wander far. 
Their ways seem harsh and wild; 

They follow the beck of a baleful star. 
Their paths are dream-beguiled. 


Yet haply they sought but a wider range. 

Some loftier mountain-slope, 
And little recked of the country strange 

Beyond the gates of hope. 

And haply a bell with a luring call 

Summoned their feet to tread 
Midst the cruel rocks, w^here the deep pitfall 

And the lurking snare are spread. 

Maybe, in spite of their tameless days 

Of outcast liberty, 
They're sick at heart for the homely ways 

Where their gathered brothers be. 

And oft at night, when the plains fall dark 

And the hills loom large and dim, 
For the Shepherd's voice they mutely hark, 

And their souls go out to him. 

Meanwhile, "Black sheep! Black sheep!" we cry. 

Safe in the inner fold; 
And maybe they hear, and wonder why, 

And marvel, out in the cold. 

Richard Burton. 


Let me no more a mendicant 
Without the gate 
Of the world's kingly palace wait; 
Morning is spent, 


The sentinels change and challenge in the tower. 
Now slant the shadows eastward hour by hour. 

Open the door, O Seneschal! Within 

I see them sit, 

The feasters, daring destiny with wit, 

Casting to win 

Or lose their utmost, and men hurry by 

At offices of confluent energy. 

Let me not here a mendicant 

Without the gate 

Linger from dayspring till the night is late. 

And there are sent 

All homeless stars to loiter in the sky, 

And beggared midnight winds to wander by. 

Arthur Colton. 


When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour 
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on. 
She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down 
To make a man to meet the mortal need. 
She took the tried clay of the common road — 
Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, 
Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; 
Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; 
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. 
Into the shape she breathed a flame to light 
That tender, tragic, ever-changing face. 
Here was a man to hold against the world, 
A man to match the mountains and the sea. 


The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; 

The smack and tang of elemental things; 

The rectitude and patience of the cliff; 

The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves; 

The friendly welcome of the wayside well; 

The courage of the bird that dares the sea; 

The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; 

The pity of the snow that hides all scars; 

The secrecy of streams that make their way 

Beneath the mountain to the rifted rock; 

The tolerance and equity of light 

That gives as freely to the shrinking flower 

As to the great oak flaring to the wind — 

To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn 

That shoulders out the sky. 

Sprung from the West, 
The strength of virgin forests braced his mind. 
The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. 
Up from log cabin to the Capitol, 
One fire was on his spirit, one resolve — 
To send the keen ax to the root of wrong. 
Clearing a free way for the feet of God. 
And evermore he burned to do his deed 
With the fine stroke and gesture of a king: 
He built the rail-pile as he built the State, 
Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, 
The conscience of him testing every stroke, 
To make his deed the measure of a man. 

So came the Captain with the mighty heart; 
And when the judgment thunders split the house. 
Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest. 


He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again 
The rafters of the Home. He held his place — 
Held the long purpose like a growing tree — 
Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. 
And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down 
As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, 
Goes down with a great shout upon the hills. 
And leaves a lonesome place against the sky. 

Edwin Markh/jm. 



A FLYING word from here and there 
Had sown the name at which we sneered. 
But soon the name w^as everywhere, 
To be reviled and then revered: 
A presence to be loved and feared. 
We cannot hide it, or deny 
That we, the gentlemen who jeered. 
May be forgotten by and by. 

He came when days were perilous 
And hearts of men were sore beguiled; 
And having made his note of us. 
He pondered and was reconciled. 
Was ever master yet so mild 
As he, and so untamable? 
We doubted, even when he smiled. 
Not knowing what he knew so well. 

He knew^ that undeceiving fate 

Would shame us whom he served unsought; 


He knew that he riiust wince and wait — 
The jest of those for whom he fought; 
He knew devoutly what he thought 
Of us and of our ridicule; 
He knew that we must all be taught 
Like little children in a school. 

We gave a glamour to the task 

That he encountered and saw through. 

But little of us did he ask, 

iVnd little did we ever do. 

And what appears if we review 

The season when we railed and chaffed .'' 

It is the face of one who knew 

That we were learning while we laughed. 

The face that in our vision feels 
Again the venom that we flung, 
Transfigured to the world reveals 
The vigilance to which we clung. 
Shrewd, hallowed, harassed, and among 
The mvsteries that are untold, 
The face we see was never young. 
Nor could it ever have been old. 

For he, to whom we have applied 
Our shopman's test of age and worth, 
AVas elemental when he died, 
As he was ancient at his birth : 
The saddest among kings of earth, 
Bowed with a galling crown, this man 
Met rancor with a cr\'ptic mirth, 
Laconic — and Olympian. 


The love, the grandeur, and the fame 
Are bounded bv the world alone; 
The calm, the smouldering, and the flame 
Of awful patience were his own: 
With him they are forever flo\sTi 
Past all our fond self -shade vvings. 
Wherewith we cumber the L'nknown 
As with inept Icarian wings. 

For we were not as other men : 
'T was ours to soar and his to see. 
But we are coming down again, 
And we shall come down pleasantly; 
Nor shall we longer disagree 
On what it is to be sublime. 
But flourish in our perigee 
And have one Titan at a time. 

Edwin Arlington Robin'Son 


Let not our town be large — remembering 
That little Athens was the Muses' home; 

That Oxford rules the heart of London still. 
That Florence gave the Renaissance to Rome. 

Record it for the grandson of vour son — 

A city is not builded in a day : 
Our little town cannot complete her soul 

Till countless generations pass away. 

Now let each child be joined as to a church 
To her perpetual hopes, each man ordained; 


Let every street be made a reverent aisle 
Where music grows, and beauty is unchained. 

Let Science and Machinery and Trade 

Be slaves of her, and make her all in all — 

Building against our blatant restless time 
An unseen, skillful, mediaeval wall. 

Let every citizen be rich toward God. 

Let Christ, the beggar, teach divinity — 
Let no man rule who holds his money dear. 

Let this, our city, be our luxury. 

We should build parks that students from afar 

Would choose to starve in, rather than go home ^ 

Fair little squares, with Phidian ornament — 
Food for the spirit, milk and honeycomb. 

Songs shall be sung by us in that good day — 
Songs we have written — blood w^ithin the rhyme 

Beating, as when old England still was glad, 
The purple, rich, Elizabethan time. 

Say, is my prophecy too fair and far.^^ 

I only know, unless her faith be high. 
The soul of this our Nineveh is doomed. 

Our little Babylon will surely die. 

Some city on the breast of Illinois 

No wiser and no better at the start. 
By faith shall rise redeemed — by faith shall rise 

Bearing the western glory in her heart — 

The genius of the Maple, Elm and Oak, 
The secret hidden in each grain of corn — 


The glory that the prairie angels sing 

At night when sons of Life and Love are bom -^ 

Born but to struggle, squalid and alone, 
Broken and wandering in their early years. 

When will they make our dusty streets their goal, 
Within our attics hide their sacred tears? 

When will they start our vulgar blood athrill 
With living language — words that set us free? 

When will they make a path of beauty clear 
Between our riches and our liberty? 

We must have many Lincoln-hearted men — 

A city is not builded in a day — 
And they must do their work, and come and go 

While countless generations pass away. 

Nicholas Vachel Lindsayc 


'Mid glad green miles of tillage 
And fields where cattle graze, 
A prosy little village, 
You drowse away the days. 

And yet — a wakeful glory 
Clings round you as you doze; 
One living lyric story 
Makes music of your prose. 


Here once, returning never, 
The feet of song have trod; 
And flashed — Oh, once forever! — 
The singing Flame of God. 


These were his fields Elysian: 
With mystic eyes he saw 
The sowers planting vision. 
The reapers gleaning awe. 

Serfs to a sordid duty, 
He saw them with his heart. 
Priests of the Ultimate Beauty, 
Feeding the flame of art. 

The weird, un templed Makers 
Pulsed in the things he saw; 
The wheat through its virile acres 
Billowed the Song of Law. 

The epic roll of the furrow 

Flung from the writing plow, 

The dactyl phrase of the green-rowed maize 

Measured the music of Now. 


Sipper of ancient flagons. 
Often the lonesome boy 
Saw in the farmers' wagons 
The chariots hurled at Troy. 

Trundling in dust and thunder 
They rumbled up and down. 


Laden with princely plunder, 
Loot of the tragic Town. 

And once when the rich man's daughter 
Smiled on the boy at play. 
Sword-storms, giddy with slaughter, 
Swept back the ancient day! 

War steeds shrieked in the quiet. 
Far and hoarse were the cries; 
And Oh, through the din and the riot. 
The music of Helen's eyes! 

Stabbed with the olden Sorrow, 
He slunk away from the play, 
For the Past and the vast To-morrow 
Were wedded in his To-day. 


Rich with the dreamer's pillage. 
An idle and worthless lad. 
Least in a prosy village. 
And prince in Allahabad; 

Lover of golden apples. 
Munching a daily crust; 
Haunter of dream-built chapels. 
Worshipping in the dust; 

Dull to the worldly duty, 
Less to the town he grew. 
And more to the God of Beauty 
Than even the grocer knew! 



Com for the buyers, and cattle — 
But what could i]j: drf-amer sell? 
Echoes of cloudy battle*' 
Music from heaven and hell? 

Spices and bales of plunder 
Argosied over the sea? 
Tapestry" woven of wonder, 
And mvrrh from Arabv? 

None of your dream-stuffs, Fellow, 

Looter of Samarcand I 

Gold is heavy and vellow, 

And value is weighed in the hand ! 


And yet, when the years had humbled 
The Kings in the Realm of the Boy, 
Song-built bastions crumbled. 
Ash-heaps smothering Troy; 

Thirsting for shattered flagons, 
QuaflBng a brackish cup. 
With all of his chariots, wagons — 
He never could quite grow up. 

The debt to the ogre, To-morrow, 
He never could comprehend : 
W^hy should the borrowers borrow? 
WTiy should the lenders lend? 

Never an oak tree borrowed, 

But took for its needs — and gave*' 


Never an oak tree sorrowed; 
Debt was the mark of the slave. 

Grass in the priceless weather 

Sucked from the paps of the Earth, 

And the hills that were lean it fleshed with green -^^ 

Oh, what is a lesson worth? 

But still did the buyers barter 
And the sellers squint at the scales; 
And price was the stake of the martyr, 
And cost was the lock of the jails. 


Windflowers herald the Maytide, 
Rendering worth for worth; 
Ragweeds gladden the wayside. 
Biting the dugs of the Earth; 

Violets, scattering glories. 

Feed from the dewy gem: 

But dreamers are fed by the living and dead — 

And what is the gift from them? 


Never a stalk of the Summer 
Dreams of its mission and doom: 
Only to hasten the Comer — 
Martyrdom unto the Bloom, 

Ever the Mighty Chooser 
Plucks when the fruit is ripe. 
Scorning the mass and letting it pass» 
Keen for the cryptic type. 


Greece in her growing season 

Troubled the lands and seas, 

Plotted and fought and sufiPered and wrought 

Building a Sophocles! 

Only a faultless temple 

Stands for the vassal's groan; 

The harlot's strife and the faith of the wife 

Blend in a graven stone. 

Ne'er do the stern gods cherish 
The hope of the million lives; 
Always the Fact shall perish 
And only the Truth survives. 

Gardens of roses wither, 

Shaping the perfect rose: 

And the poet's song shall live for the long, 

Dumb, aching years of prose. 


King of a Realm of Magic, 
He was the fool of the town. 
Hiding the ache of the tragic 
Under the grin of the clown. 

Worn with the vain endeavor 
To fit in the sordid plan; 
Doomed to be poet forever. 
He longed to be only a man; 

To be freed from the god's enthralling, 
Back with the reeds of the stream; 
Deaf to the Vision calling. 
And dead to the lash of the Dream, 



But still did the Mighty Makers 
Stir in the common sod; 
The corn through its awful acres 
Trembled and thrilled with God! 

More than a man was the sower. 

Lured by a man's desire. 

For a triune Bride walked close at his side — 

Dew and Dust and Fire! 

More than a man was the plowman. 
Shouting his gee and haw; 
For a something dim kept pace with him. 
And ever the poet saw; 

Till the winds of the cosmic struggle 
Made of his flesh a flute, 
To echo the tune of a whirlwind rune 
Unto the million mute. 


Son of the Mother of mothers, 
The womb and the tomb of Life, 
With Fire and Air for brothers 
And a clinging Dream for a wife; 

Ever the soul of the dreamer 

Strove with its mortal mesh. 

And the lean flame grew till it fretted through 

The last thin links of flesh. 

Oh, rending the veil asunder. 
He fled to mingle again 


With the dred Orestean thunder, 
The Lear of the driven rain! 


Once in a cycle the comet 

Doubles its lonesome track. 

Enriched with the tears of a thousand years. 

iEschylus wanders back. 

Ever inweaving, returning, 

The near grows out of the far; 

And Homer shall sing once more in a swing 

Of the austere Polar Star. 

Then what of the lonesome dreamer 
With the lean blue flame in his breast? 
And who was your clown for a day, O Town^ 
The strange, unbidden guest? 


*Mid glad green miles of tillage 
And fields where cattle graze; 
A prosy little village. 
You drowse away the days. 

And yet — a wakeful glory 
Clings round you as you doze; 
One living, lyric story 
Makes music of your prose! 

John G. NeihardU 



Perhaps they laughed at Dante in his youth, 

Told him that truth 

Had unappealably been said 

In the great masterpieces of the dead : — 

Perhaps he listened and but bowed his head 

In acquiescent honour, while his heart 

Held natal tidings, — that a new life is the part 

Of every man that's born, 

A new life never lived before. 

And a new expectant art; 

It is the variations of the morn 

That are forever, more and more, 

The single dawning of the single truth. 

So answers Dante to the heart of youth! 

Witter Bynner^ 


When I am tired of earnest men. 

Intense and keen and sharp and clever, 
Pursuing fame with brush or pen 

Or counting metal disks forever. 
Then from the halls of shadowland 

Beyond the trackless purple sea 
Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand 

Beside my desk and talk to me. 

Still on his delicate pale face 

A quizzical thin smile is showing. 

His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace. 
His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. 


He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, 
A suit to match his soft gray hair, 

A rakish stick, a knowing hat, 
A manner blithe and debonair. 

How good, that he who always knew 

That being lovely was a duty. 
Should have gold halls to wander through 

And should himself inhabit beauty. 
How like his old unselfish way 

To leave those halls of splendid mirth 
And comfort those condemned to stay 

Upon the bleak and sombre earth* 

Some people ask: What cruel chance 

Made Martin's life so sad a story.'^ 
Martin? Wh}^ he exhaled romance 

And wore an overcoat of glory. 
A fleck of sunlight in the street, 

A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, -^ 
Such visions made each moment sweet 

For this receptive, ancient child. 

Because it was old Martin's lot 

To be, not make, a decoration, 
Shall we then scorn him, having not 

His genius of appreciation? 
Rich joy and love he got and gave; 

His heart was merry as his dress. 
Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave 

Who did not gain, but was, success. 

Joyce KilTJier, 





As in the midst of battle there is room 

For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth; 
As gossips whisper of a trinket's worth 

Spied by the death-bed's flickering candle-gloom; 

As in the crevices of Caesar's tomb 

The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth: 
So in this great disaster of our birth 

We can be happy, and forget our doom. 

For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy 
Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth, 

And evening gently woos us to employ 
Our grief in idle catches. Such is youth; 

Till from that summer's trance we wake, to find 

Despair before us, vanity behind. 

George Santayana, 


In an old book at even as I read 

Fast fading words adown my shadowy page, 

I crossed a tale of how, in other age. 
At Arqua, with his books around him, sped 
The word to Petrarch; and with noble head 

Bowed gently o'er his volume that sweet sage 

To Silence paid his willing seigniorage. 
And they who found him whispered, "He is dead!" 

Thus timely from old comradeships would I 
To Silence also rise. Let there be night. 


Stillness, and only these staid watchers by. 
And no light shine save my low study light — 

Lest of his kind intent some human cry 
Interpret not the Messenger aright. 

Arthur Upson. 


Himself is least afraid 

When the singing lips in the dust 
With all mute lips are laid. 

For thither all men must. 
Nor is the end long stayed. 

But he, having cast his song 

Upon the faithful air 
And given it speed — is strong 

That last strange hour to dare. 
Nor wills to tarr}^ long. 

Adown immortal time 

That greater self shall pass. 
And wear its eager prime 

And lend the youth it has 
Like one far blowing chime. 

He has made sure the quest 

And now — his word gone forth — 

May have his perfect rest 
Low in the tender earth, 

The wind across his breast. 

Mildred McNeal Sweeney, 



When I have finished with this episode, 

Left the hard, uphill road. 

And gone weird ways to seek another load, 

Oh, friends, regret me not, nor weep for me, 

Child of Infinity! 

Nor dig a grave, nor rear for me a tomb 
To say with lying writ: "Here in the gloom 
He who loved bigness takes a narrow room. 

Content to pillow here his weary head. 

For he is dead." 

But give my body to the funeral pyre. 

And bid the laughing fire, 

Eager and strong and swift, like my desire. 

Scatter my subtle essence into space. 

Free me of time and place. 

And sweep the bitter ashes from the hearth. 
Fling back the dust I borrowed from the earth 
Into the chemic broil of death and birth. 

The vast alembic of the cryptic scheme. 

Warm with the master-dream. 

And thus, O little house that sheltered me, 
Dissolve again in wind and rain, to be 
Part of the cosmic weird economy. 

And, Oh, how oft with new life shalt thou lift 

Out of the atom-drift! 

John G. Neihardtc 




In silence, solitude and stern surmise 

His faith was tried and proved commensurate 
With life and death. The stone-blind eyes of Fate 

Perpetually stared into his eyes, 

Yet to the hazard of the enterprise 

He brought his soul, expectant and elate, 
And challenged, like a champion at the Gate, 

Death's undissuadable austerities. 

And thus, full-armed in all that Truth reprieves 
From dissolution, he beheld the breath 

Of daybreak flush his thought's exalted ways. 

While, like Dodona's sad, prophetic leaves. 

Round him the scant, supreme, momentous days 
Trembled and murmured in the wind of Death. 


There moved a Presence always by his side, 

With eyes of pleasure and passion and wild tears. 
And on her lips the murmur of many years, 
And in her hair the chaplets of a bride; 
And with him, hour by hour, came one beside, 
Scatheless of Time and Time's vicissitude. 
Whose lips, perforce of endless solitude. 
Were silent and whose eyes were blind and wide. 
But when he died came One who wore a wreath 
Of star-light, and with fingers calm and bland 
Smoothed from his brows the trace of mortal pain: 
And of the two who stood on either hand, 
*'This one is Life," he said, "And this is Death, 
And I am Love and Lord over these twain!" 

George Cabot Lodge, 



Shall I say that what heaven gave 

Earth has taken? — 
Or that sleepers in the grave 


One sole sentence can I know, 

Can I say: 
You, my comrade, had to go, 

I to stay. 

Witter Bynner. 


Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying, 

In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming? 
We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went straying; 

Now never a heart to my heart comes homing ! — 
Where is he now, the dark boy slender 

Who taught me bare-back, stirrup and reins? 
I loved him; he loved me; my beautiful, tender 

Tamer of horses on grass-grown plains. 

Where is he now whose eyes swam brighter, 

Softer than love, in his turbulent charms; 
Who taught me to strike, and to fall, dear fighterj 

And gathered me up in his boyhood arms; 
Taught me the rifle, and with me went riding. 

Suppled my limbs to the horseman's war; 
Where is he now, for whom my heart 's biding, 

Biding, biding — but he rides far! 


love that passes the love of woman! 
Who that hath felt it shall ever forget, 

When the breath of life with a throb turns human. 
And a lad's heart is to a lad's heart set? 

Ever, forever, lover and rover — 

They shall cling, nor each from other shall part 

Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be over. 
And life is dust in each faithful heart ! 

They are dead, the American grasses under; 

There is no one now who presses my side; 
By the African chotts I am riding asunder, 

And with great joy ride I the last great ride. 

1 am fey; I am fain of sudden dying; 
Thousands of miles there is no one near; 

And my heart — all the night it is crying, crying 
In the bosoms of dead lads darling-dear. 

Hearts of my music — them dark earth covers; 

Comrades to die, and to die for, were they; 
In the width of the world there were no such rovers — 

Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay; 
And the highest on earth was the vow that we cher- 

To spur forth from the crowd and come back never 
And to ride in the track of great souls perished 

Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o'er. 

Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands. 

Who hath joy of me, riding the Tartar glissade; 

And one, far faring o'er orient islands 

Whose blood yet glints with my blade's accolade; 


North, west, east, I fling you my last hallooing, 
Last love to the breasts where my own has bled; 

Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps pursuing 
My star where it rises a Star of the Dead. 

George Edward Woodberry. 


Comrades, pour the wine to-night 

For the parting is with dawn! 

Oh, the clink of cups together, 

With the daylight coming on! 

Greet the morn 

With a double horn, 

When strong men drink together! 

Comrades, gird your swords to-night. 

For the battle is with dawn! 

Oh, the clash of shields together. 

With the tniumph coming on ! 

Greet the foe, 

And lay him low. 

When strong men fight together! 

Comrades, watch the tides to-nightj 

For the sailing is with dawn! 

Oh, to face the spray together. 

With the tempest coming on! 

Greet the sea 

With a shout of glee. 

When strong men roam together! 

Comrades, give a cheer to-night. 
For the dying is with dawn! 


Oh, to meet the stars together. 

With the silence coming on! 

Greet the end 

As a friend a friend, 

When strong men die together! 

Richard Hoveyc 


We go no more to Calverly's, 
For there the lights are few and low; 
And who are there to see by them. 
Or what they see, we do not know. 
Poor strangers of another tongue 
May now creep in from anywhere. 
And we, forgotten, be no more 
Than twilight on a ruin there. 

We two, the remnant. All the rest 

Are cold and quiet. You nor I, 

Nor fiddle now, nor flagon-lid. 

May ring them back from where they lico 

No fame delays oblivion 

For them, but something yet survives: 

A record written fair, could we 

But read the book of scattered lives. 

There'll be a page for Leflingwell, 
And one for Lingard, the Moon -calf ; 
And who knows what for Clavering, 
Who died because he could n't laugh? 
Who knows or cares .^^ No sign is here^ 
No face, no voice, no memory; 

URIEL 161 

No Lingard with his eerie joy, 
No Clavering, no Calverlyo 

We cannot have them here with us 
To say where their light lives are gone, 
Or if they be of other stuff 
Than are the moons of Ilion. 
So, be their place of one estate 
With ashes, echoes, and old wars, — 
Or ever we be of the night. 
Or we be lost among the stars. 

Edwin Arlington Robinson 



Uriel, you that in the ageless sun 

Sit in the awful silences of light. 

Singing of vision hid from human sight, — 

Prometheus, beautiful rebellious one! 

And you, Deucalion, 

For whose blind seed was brought the illuming spark* 

Are you not gathered, now his day is done. 

Beside the brink of that relentless dark — 

The dark where your dear singer's ghost is gone? 


Imagined beings, who majestic blend 
Your forms with beauty! — questing, unconfined. 
The mind conceived you, though the quenched minti 
Goes down in dark where you in dawn ascend. 

162 URIEL 

Our songs can but suspend 

The ultimate silence: yet could song aspire 

The realms of mortal music to extend 

And wake a Sibyl's voice or Seraph's lyre — ' 

How should it tell the dearness of a friend? 


The simplest is the inexpressible; 

The heart of music still evades the Muse, 

And arts of men the heart of man suffuse, 

And saddest things are made of silence still. 

In vain the senses thrill 

To give our sorrows glorious relief 

In pyre of verse and pageants volatile, 

And I, in vain, to speak for him my grief 

Whose spirit of fire invokes my waiting will. 


To him the best of friendship needs must be 
Uttered no more; yet was he so endowed 
That Poetry because of him is proud 
And he more noble for his poetry. 
Wherefore infallibly 

I obey the strong compulsion which this verse 
Lays on my lips with strange austerity — 
Now that his voice is silent — to rehearse 
For my own heart how he was dear to me. 


Not by your gradual sands, elusive Time, 
We measure your gray sea, that never rests; 
The bleeding hour-glasses in our breasts 
Mete with quick pangs the ebbing of our prime. 

URIEL 168 

And drip, like sudden rime 

In March, that melts to runnels from a pane 

The south breathes on — oblivion of sublime 

Crystallizations, and the ruthless wane 

Of glittering stars, that scarce had range to climb. 


Darkling those constellations of his soul 
Glimmered, while racks of stellar lightning shot 
The white, creative meteors of thought 
Through that last night, where — clad in cloudy 

stole — 
Beside his ebbing shoal 

Of life-blood, stood Saint Paul, blazing a theme 
Of living drama from a fiery scroll 
Across his stretched vision as in dream — 
When Death, with blind dark, blotted out the whole* 


And yet not all: though darkly alien 

Those uncompleted worlds of work to be 

Are waned; still, touched by them, the memory 

Gives afterglow; and now that comes again 

The mellow season when 

Our eyes last met, his kindling currents run 

Quickening within me gladness and new ken 

Of life, that I have shared his prime with one 

Who wrought large-minded for the love of men, 


But not alone to share that large estate 
Of work and interchange of communings — 
The little human paths to heavenly things 

164 URIEL 

Were also ours: the casual, intimate 

Vistas, which consecrate — 

With laughter and quick tears — the dusty noon 

Of days, and b}^ moist beams irradiate 

Our plodding minds with courage, and attune 

The fellowship that bites its thumb at fate, 


Where art thou now, mine host Guffanti? — where 

The iridescence of thy motley troop! 

Ah, where the merry, animated group 

That snuggled elbows for an extra chair, 

When space was none to spare. 

To pour the votive Chianti for a toast 

To dramas dark and lyrics debonair. 

The while, to Bella Napoli, mine ht)st 

Exhaled his Parmazan, Parnassan air! 


Thy Parmazan, immortal laird of ease. 
Can never mold, thy caviare is blest. 
While still our glowing Uriel greets the rest 
Around thy royal board of memories, 
Where sit, the salt of these. 
He of the laughter of a Hundred Lights, 
Blithe Eldorado of high poesies, 
And he — of enigmatic gentle knights 
The kindly keen — who sings of Calverly'So 


Because he never wore his sentient heart 
For crows and jays to peck, ofttimes to such 
He seemed a silent fellow, who o'ermuch 

URIEL 165 

Held from the general gossip-ground apart, 
Or tersely spoke, and tart: 
How should they guess what eagle tore, within, 
His quick of sympathy for humblest smart 
Of human wretchedness, or probed his spleen 
Of scorn against the hypocritic mart! 


Sometimes insufferable seemed to come 

That wrath of sympathy : One windy night 

We watched through squalid panes, forlornly white, — =^ 

Amid immense machines' incessant hum — 

Frail figures, gaunt and dumb, 

Of overlabored girls and children, bowed 

Above their slavish toil: "O God! — A bomb, 

A bomb!" he cried, '*and with one fiery cloud 

Expunge the horrible Caesars of this slum!" 


Another night dreams on the Cornish hills: 

Trembling within the low moon's pallid fires. 

The tall corn-tassels lift their fragrant spires; 

From filmy spheres, a liquid starlight fills — 

Like dew of daffodils — 

The fragile dark, where multitudinous 

The rhythmic, intermittent silence thrills. 

Like song, the valleys. — "Hark!" he murmurs. 

May bards from crickets learn their canticles!" 


Now Morning, not less lavish of her sweets, 
JiCads us along the woodpaths — in whose hush 

166 URIEL 

The quivering alchemy of the pure thrush 
Cools from above the balsam-dripping heats — 
To find, in green retreats, 

'Mid men of clay, the great, quick-hearted man 
Whose subtle art our human age secretes, 
Or him whose brush, tinct with cerulean, 
Blooms with soft castle-towers and cloud-capped 


Still to the sorcery of August skies 

In frilled crimson flaunt the hoUvhocks, 

Where, lithely poised along the garden walks. 

His little maid enamoured blithe outvies 

The dipping butterflies 

In motion — ah, in grace how grown the w^hile. 

Since he was wont to render to her eves 

His knightly court, or touch with flitting smile 

Her father's heart by his true flatteries! 


But summer's golden pastures boast no trail 

So splendid as our fretted snowshoes blaze 

Where, sharp across the amethystine wa^^s, 

Iron Ascutnev looms in azure mail, 

And, like a frozen grail. 

The frore sun sets, intolerably fair; 

Mute, in our homebound snow-tracks, we exhale 

The silvery cold, and soon — where bright logs flare 

Talk the long indoor hours, till embers fail. 


Ah, with the smoke what smouldering desires 
Waft to the starlight up the swirling flue! — 


Thoughts that may never, as the swallows do, 
Nest circling homeward to their native fires! 
Ardors the soul suspires 

The extinct stars drink with the dreamer's breath; 
The morning-song of Eden's early choirs 
Grows dim with Adam; close at the ear of death 
Relentless angels tune our earthly lyres! 


Let it be so: More sweet it is to be 

A listener of love's ephemeral song, 

And live with beauty though it be not long, 

And die enamoured of eternity. 

Though in the apogee 

Of time there sit no individual 

Godhead of life, than to reject the plea 

Of passionate beauty : loveliness is all, 

And love is more divine than memory. 

Percy MacKaye, 


The angels in high places 

Who minister to us. 
Reflect God's smile, — their faces 

Are luminous; 
Save one, whose face is hidden, 

(The Prophet saith). 
The unwelcome, the unbidden, 

Azrael, Angel of Death. 
And yet that veiled face, I know 

Is lit with pitying eyes. 
Like those faint stars, the first to glow 

Through cloudy winter skies. 


That they may never tire, 

Angels, by God's decree, 
Bear wings of snow and fire, — 

Passion and purit^^; 
Save one, all unavailing, 

(The Prophet saith), 
His wings are gray and trailing, 

Azrael, Angel of Death. 
And yet the souls that Azrael brings 

Across the dark and cold. 
Look up beneath tliose folded wings, 

And find them lined with gold. 

Robert Gilbert Welsho 


Upon a cloud among the stars we stood. 

The angel raised his hand and looked and said, 

** Which world, of all yon starry myriad. 
Shall we make wing to.^^" The still solitude 
Became a harp whereon his voice and mood 
Made spheral music round his haloed head. 
I spake — for then I had not long been dead — 

"Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood 
A moment on these orbs ere I decide . . . 
What is yon lower star that beauteous shines 
And with soft splendour now incarnadines 
Our wings? — There would I go and there abide." 
Then he as one who some child's thought divines: 

'*That is the world where yesternight you died." 

Lloyd Mifflin. 



I so loved once, when Death came by I hid 

Away my face, 
And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid 

To make my hiding-place. 

The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; and 

I turned me then 
To calm my love — kiss down her shielding hand 

And comfort her again. 

And lo! she answered not: and she did sit 

All fixedly. 
With her fair face and the sweet smile of it, 

In love with Death, not me. 

James Whitcomh Riley o 


A RHYME of good Death's inn ! 

My love came to that door; 
And she had need of many things, 

The way had been so sore. 

My love she lifted up her head, 
"And is there room?" said she; 
"There was no room in Bethlehem's inn 
For Christ who died for me." 

But said the keeper of the inn, 
"His name is on the door." 


My love then straightway entered there: 
She hath come back no more. 

Lizette Woodworth Reese, 


Life said: "My house is thine with all its store; 

Behold I open shining ways to thee — 

Of every inner portal make thee free: 
O child, I may not bar the outer door. 
Go from me if thou wilt, to come no ii^ore; 

But all thy pain is mine, thy flesh of me; 

And must I hear thee, faint and woefully. 
Call on me from the darkness and implore.^** 

Nay, mother, for I follow at thy will. 

But oftentimes thy voice is sharp to hear. 
Thy trailing fragrance heavy on the breath; 
Always the outer hall is very still, 

And on my face a pleasant wind and clear 

Blows straitly from the narrow gate of Death 

Nora May French. 


N. M. F. 

Whither, with blue and pleading eyes, — 
Whither, with cheeks that held the light 

Of winter's dawn in cloudless skies, 
Evadne, was thy flight.'^ 

Such as a sister's was thy brow; 

Thy hair seemed fallen from the moon — 


Part of its radiance, as now. 
Of shifting tide and dune. 

Did Autumn's grieving lure thee hence, 

Or silence ultimate beguile? 
Ever our things of consequence 

Awakened but thy smile. 

Is it with thee that ocean takes 

A stranger sorrow to its tone? 
With thee the star of evening wakes 

More beautiful, more lone? 

For wave and hill and sky betray 
A subtle tinge and touch of thee; 

Thy shadow lingers in the day, 
Thy voice in winds to be. 

Beauty — hast thou discovered her 
By deeper seas no moons control? 

What stars have magic now to stir 
Thy swift and wilful soul? 

Or may thy heart no more forget 

The grievous world that once was home. 

That here, where love awaits thee yet. 
Thou seemest yet to roam? 

For most, far-wandering, I guess 
Thy witchery on the haunted mind. 

In valleys of thy loneliness, 
Made clean with ocean's wind. 


And most thy presence here seems told, 

A waif of elemental deeps, 
"VMien, at its vigils imeonsoled. 

Some night of winter weeps. 

George Sterling. 



We needs must be divided in the tomb. 
For I would die among the hills of Spain, 
And oVr the treeless, melancholy plain 

Await the coming of the final gloom. 

But thou — O pitiful! — wilt find scant room 
Among thy kindred by the northern main. 
And fade into the drifting mist again. 

The hemlocks' shadow, or the pines' perfume. 

Let gallants fie beside their ladies' dust 

In one cold grave, with mortal love inumed; 

Let the sea part our ashes, if it must. 

The souls fled thence which love immortal burned. 

For they were wedded without bond of lust. 
And nothing of our heart to earth returned. 

George Santayana. 


My true love from her pillow rose 

And wandered down the summer lane. 

She left her house to the wind's carouse. 
And her chamber wide to the rain. 


She did not stop to don her coat, 

She did not stop to smooth her bed — 

But out she went in glad content 
There where the bright path led. 

She did not feel the beating storm, 

But fled like a sunbeam, white and frail, 

To the sea, to the air, somewhere, somewhere — 
I have not found her trail. 

Hermann Hagedornc 


She's somewhere in the sunlight strong, 

Her tears are in the falling rain. 
She calls me in the wind's soft song. 

And with the flowers she comes again. 

Yon bird is but her messenger. 

The moon is but her silver car; 
Yea! Sun and moon are sent by her, 

And every wistful, waiting star. 

Richard Le Gallienne 


The low-voiced girls that go 

In gardens of the Lord, 
Like flowers of the field they grow 

In sisterly accord. 

Their whispering feet are white 
Along the leafy ways; 


They go in whirls of light 
Too beautiful for praise. 

And in their band forsooth 

Is one to set me free — 
The one that touched my youth — 

The one God gave to me. 

She kindles the desire 

Whereby the gods survive — 

The white ideal fire 

That keeps my soul alive. 

Now at the wondrous hour, 
She leaves her star supreme, 

And comes in the night's still power, 
To touch me with a dream. 

Sibyl of mystery 
On roads unknown to men, 

Softly she comes to me, 
And goes to God again. 

Edwin Alarkham. 


Threading a darksome passage all alone, 
The taper's flame, by envious current blown, 
Crouched low, and eddied round, as in affright. 
So challenged by the vast and hostile night. 
Then down I held the taper; — swift and fain 
Up climbed the lovely flower of light again! 


Thou Kindler of the spark of life divine. 

Be henceforth the Inverted Torch a sign 

That, though the flame beloved thou dost depress. 

Thou wilt not speed it into nothingness; 

But out of nether gloom wilt reinspire, 

And homeward lift the keen empyreal fire! 

Edith M. Thomas. 


Night is the true democracy. When day 

Like some great monarch with his train has passed 
In regal pomp and splendor to the last, 

The stars troop forth along the Milky Way, 

A jostling crowd, in radiant disarray, 

On heaven's broad boulevard in pageants vast. 
And things of earth, the hunted and outcast. 

Come from their haunts and hiding-places; yea. 

Even from the nooks and crannies of the mind 
Visions uncouth and vagrant fancies start. 
And specters of dead joy, that shun the light. 

And impotent regrets and terrors blind, 

Each one, in form grotesque, playing its part 
In the fantastic Mardi Gras of Night. 

Edward J. Wheelen 


There is a quest that calls me, 

In nights when I am lone, 
The need to ride where the ways divide 

The Known from the Unknown. 


I mount what thought is near me 

And soon I reach the place, 
The tenuous rim where the Seen grows dim 

And the Sightless hides its face. 

I have ridden the wind, 

I have ridden the sea, 

I have ridden the moon and stars, 

I have set my feet in the stirrup seat 

Of a comet coursing Mars, 

And everywhere 

Thro' the earth and air 

My thought speeds, lightning-shod. 

It comes to a place where checking pace 

It cries, ''Beyond lies God!'' 

It calls me out of the darkness, 

It calls me out of sleep, 
'^''Ilide! ride! for you must, to the end of Dust!*' 

It bids — and on I sweep 
To the wide outposts of Being, 

Where there is Gulf alone — 
And thro' a Vast that was never passed 

I listen for Life's tone. 

I have ridden the wind, 

I have ridden the night, 

I have ridden the ghosts that flee 

From the vaults of death like a chilling breath 

Over eternity. 

And everywhere 

Is the world laid hare — 

Ether and star and clod — 


Until I wind to its brink and find 
But the cry, ''Beyond lies God!'' 

It calls me and ever calls me! 

And vainly I reply, 
'Fools only ride where the ways divide 

AVhat Is from the Whence and Why"! 
I'm lifted into the saddle 

Of thoughts too strong to tame 
And dov/n the deeps and over the steeps 

I find — ever the same. 

I have ridden the wind, 

I have ridden the stars, 

I have ridden the force that flies 

With far intent thro' the firmament 

And each to each allies. 

And everywhere 

That a thought may dare 

To gallop, mine has trod — 

Only to stand at last on the strand 

Where just beyond lies God. 

Cale Young Rice. 


I WOULD I might forget that I am I, 

And break the heavy chain that binds me fast, 
Whose links about myself my deeds have cast. 
What in the body's tomb doth buried lie 
Is boundless; 't is the spirit of the sky, 
Lord of the future, guardian of the past. 


And soon must forth, to know his own at last 
In his large life to live, I fain would die. 

Happy the dumb beast, hungering for food, 
But caUing not his suffering his own; 

Blessed the angel, gazing on all good. 
But knowing not he sits upon a throne; 

Wretched the mortal, pondering his mood. 
And doomed to know his aching heart alone. 

George Santayancu 


{Fiona Macleod) 

The waves about lona dirge, 

The wild winds trumpet over Skye; 

Shrill around Arran's cliff-bound verge 
The gray gulls cry. 

Spring wraps its transient scarf of green, 
Its heathery robe, round slope and scar; 

And night, the scudding wrack between. 
Lights its lone star. 

But you who loved these outland isles. 

Their gleams, their glooms, their mysteries 

Their eldritch lures, their druid wiles, 
Their tragic seas. 

Will heed no more, in mortal guise. 

The potent witchery of their call, 
If dawn be regnant in the skies. 

Or evenfall. 


Yet, though where suns Sicilian beam 
The loving earth enfolds your form, 

I can but deem these coasts of dream 
And hovering storm 

Still thrall your spirit — that it bides 
By far lona's kelp-strewn shore, 

There lingering till time and tides 
Shall surge no more. 

Clinton Scollard. 


(Ave! Francis Thompson) 

He had been singing — but I had not heard his voice; 

He had been weaving lovely dreams of song, 

O many a morning long. 

But I, remote and far, 

Under an alien star. 

Listened to other singers, other birds. 

And other silver words. 

But does the skylark, singing sweet and clear. 

Beg the cold world to hear? 

Rather he sings for very rapture of singing. 

At dawn, or in the blue, mild Summer noon, 

Knowing that, late or soon, 

His wealth of beauty, and his high notes, ringing 

Above the earth, will make some heart rejoice. 

He sings, albeit alone, 

Spendthrift of each pure tone, 

Hoarding no single song. 

No cadence wild and strong. 

But one day, from a friend far overseas, 


As if upon the breeze, 

There came the teeming wonder of his words — 

A golden troop of birds, 

Caged in a little volume made to love; 

Singing, singing, 

Flinging, flinging 

Their breaking hearts on mine, and swiftly bringing 

Tears, and the peace thereof. 

How the world woke anew! 

How the davs broke anew! 

Before my tear-blind eyes a tapestry 

I seemed to see, 

Woven of all the dreams dead or to be. 

Hills, hills of song. Springs of eternal bloom, 

Autumns of golden pomp and purple gloom 

Were hung upon his loom. 

Winters of pain, roses with awful thorns, 

Yet w^ondrous faith in God's dew-drenched morns — 

These, all these I saw, 

With that ecstatic awe 

TMierewith one looks into Eternity. 

And then I knew that, though I had not heard 

His voice before. 

His quiet singing, like some quiet bird 

At some one's distant door, 

Had made mv own more sweet; had made it more 

Lovelv, in one of God's miraculous wavs. 

I knew then why the days 

Had seemed to me more perfect when the Spring 

Came with old bourgeoning; 

For somewhere in the world his voice was raised, 

And somewhere in the world his heart was breaking; 


And never a flower but knew it, sweetly taking 
Beauty more high and noble for his sake, 
As a whole wood grows lovelier for the wail 
Of one sad nightingale. 

Yet if the Springs long past 

Seemed wonderful before I heard his voice, 

I tremble at the beauty I shall see 

In seasons still to be, 

Now that his songs are mine while Life shall last. 

O now for me 

New floods of vision open suddenly . . . 

Rejoice, my heart! Rejoice 

That you have heard the Quiet Singer's voice! 

Charles Hanson Towne» 


Out of the conquered Past 

Unravishable Beauty; 
Hearts that are dew and dust 

Rebuking the dream of Death; 
Flower o' the clay downcast 

Triumphant in Earth's aroma; 
Strings that were strained in rust 

A-tremble with Music's breath! 

Wine that was spilt in haste 
Arising in fumes more precious; 

Garlands that fell forgot 

Rooting to wondrous bloom; 

Youth that would flow to waste 
Pausing in pool-green valleys — 


And Passion that lasted not 
Surviving the voiceless Tomb! 

Arthur Upsoric 


These are the best of him, 
Pathos and jest of him; 
Earth holds the rest of him. 

Passions were strong in him, — 
Pardon the wrong in him; 
Hark to the song in him ! — 

Each little lyrical 
Grave or satirical 
Musical miracle! 

Frederi-c Lawrence KnowleSc 


Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, 

Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; 

He wept that he was ever born. 
And he had reasons. 

Miniver loved the days of old 

When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; 
The vision of a warrior bold 

Would set him dancing. 

Miniver sighed for what was not. 

And dreamed, and rested from his labors; 


He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, 
And Priam's neighbors. 

Miniver mourned the ripe renown 

That made so many a name so fragrant; 

He mourned Romance, now on the town, 
And Art, a vagrant. 

Miniver loved the Medici, 

Albeit he had never seen one; 
He would have sinned incessantly 

Could he have been one. 

Miniver cursed the commonplace 

And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; 

He missed the mediaeval grace 
Of iron clothing. 

Miniver scorned the gold he sought, 
But sore annoyed was he without it; 

Miniver thought, and thought, and thoughts 
And thought about it. 

Miniver Cheevy, born too late, 

Scratched his head and kept on thinking; 
Miniver coughed, and called it fate. 

And kept on drinking. 

Edwin Arlington RobinsoUc 


There is no escape by the river. 
There is no flight left by the fen; 


We are compassed about b}^ the shiver 

Of the night of their marching men. 

Give a cheer! 

For our hearts shall not give way. 

Here's to a dark to-morrow, 

And here's to a brave to-day! 

The tale of their hosts is countless, 

And the tale of ours a score; 

But the palm is naught to the dauntless. 

And the cause is more and more. 

Give a cheer! 

We may die, but not give way. 

Here's to a silent morrow. 

And here's to a stout to-day! 

God has said: **Ye shall fail and perish; 
But the thrill ye have felt to-night 
I shall keep in my heart and cherish 
When the worlds have passed in night." 
Give a cheer! 

For the soul shall not give way. 
Here's to the greater to-morrow 
That is born of a great to-day! 

Now shame on the craven truckler 
And the puling things that mope! 
We've a rapture for our buckler 
That outwears the wings of hope. 
Give a cheer! 

For our joy shall not give way. 
Here's in the teeth of to-morrow 
To the glory of to-day! 

Richard Hovey. 



I RIDE on the mountain tops, I ride; \ 
I have found my life and am satisfied. 
Onward I ride in the blowing oats, 
Checking the field-lark's rippling notes — 

Lightly I sweep 

From steep to steep: 
Over my head through the branches high 
Come glimpses of a rushing sky; 
The tall oats brush my horse's flanks; 
Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks; 
A bee booms out of the scented grass; 
A jay laughs with me as I pass. 

I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget 

Life's hoard of regret — 

All the terror and pain 

Of the chafing chain. 

Grind on, O cities, grind: 

I leave you a blur behind. 
I am lifted elate' — the skies expand: 
Here the world 's heaped gold is a pile of sand. 
Let them weary and work in their narrow walls: 
I ride with the voices of waterfalls ! 

I swing on as one in a dream — I swing 
Down the airy hollows, I shout, I sing! 
The world is gone like an empty word: 
My body's a bough in the wind, my heart a bird! 

Edwin Markham. 




In the middle of August when the southwest wind 

Blows after sunset through the leisuring air, 

And on the sky nightly the m^^thic hind 

Leads down the sullen dog star to his lair. 

After the feverous vigil of July, 

When the loud pageant of the year's high noon 

Passed up the ways of time to sing and part. 

Grief also wandered by 

From out the lovers and the leaves of June, 

And by the wizard spices of his hair 

I knew his heart was very Love's own heart. 

Deep within dreams he led me out of doors 

As from the upper vault the night outpours. 

And when I saw that to him all the skies 

Yearned as a sea asleep yearns to its shores. 

He took a little clay and touched my eyes. 

What saw I then, what heard? 

Multitudes, multitudes, under the moon they stirred! 

The weaker brothers of our earthlv breed; 

Watchmen of whom our safetv takes no heed; 

Swift helpers of the wind that sowed the seed 

Before the first field was or anv fruit; 

Warriors against the bivouac of the weed; 

Earth's earliest ploughmen for the tender root. 

All came about my head and at my feet 

A thousand, thousand sweet, 

With starry eyes not even raised to plead; 

Bewildered, driven, hiding, fluttering, mute! 


And I beheld and saw them one by one 

Pass and become as nothing in the night. 

Clothed on with red they were who once were white: 

Drooping, who once led armies to the sun, 

Of whom the lowly grass now topped the flight: 

In scarlet faint, who once were brave in brown; 

Climbers and builders of the silent town, 

Creepers and burrowers all in crimson dye, 

Winged mysteries of song that from the sky 

Once dashed long music down. 

O who would take away music from the earth? 

Have we so much? Or love upon the hearth? 

No more — they faded ; 

The great trees bending between birth and birth 

Sighed for them, and the night wind's hoarse rebuff 

Shouted the shame of which I was persuaded. 

Shall Nature's only pausing be by men invaded? 

Or shall we lay grief's fagots on her shoulders bare? 

Has she not borne enough? 

Soon will the mirroring woodland pools begin to con 

And her sad immemorial passion come upon her; 
Lo, would you add despair unto despair? 
Shall not the Spring be answer to her prayer? 
Must her uncomforted heavens overhead, 
Weeping, look down on tears and still behold 
Only wings broken or a fledgling dead. 
Or underfoot the meadows that wore gold 
Die, and the leaves go mourning to the mould 
Beneath poor dead and desperate feet 
Of folk who in next summer's meadows shall not meet? 

188 THE Lesser children 

Who has not seen in the high gulf of h'ght 

What, lower, was a bird, but now 

Is moored and altered quite 

Into an island of unshaded joy? 

To whom the mate below upon the bough 

Shouts once and brings him from his high employe 

Yet speeding he forgot not of the cloud 

Where he from glory sprang and burned aloud. 

But took a little of the day, 

A little of the colored sky, 

And of the joy that would not stay 

He wove a song that cannot die. 

Then, then — the unfathomable shame; 

The one last wrong arose from out the flame. 

The ravening hate that hated not was hurled 

Bidding the radiant love once more beware. 

Bringing one more loneliness on the world, 

And one more blindness in the unseen air. 

Nor may the smooth regret, the pitying oath 

Shed on such utter bitter any leaven. 

Only the pleading flowers that knew them both 

Hold all their bloody petals up to heaven. 

Winds of the fall that all year to and fro 

Somewhere upon the earth go wandering, 

You saw, you moaned, you know: 

Withhold not then unto all time to tell 

Lest unborn others of us see this thing. 

Bring our sleek, comfortable reason low: 

Recount how souls grown tremulous as a bell 

Came forth each other and the day to greet 

In morning air all Indian-Summer sweet. 

And crept upstream, through wood or field or brake, 


Most tremblingly to take 

What crumbs that from the Master's table fell. 

Cry with what thronging thunders they were met, 

And hide not how the least leaf was made wet. 

Cry till no watcher says that all is well 

With raucous discord through the leaning spheres. 

But tell 

With tears, with tears 

How the last man is harmed even as they 

Who on these dawns are fire, at dusk are clay. 

Record the dumb and wise. 

No less than those who lived in singing guise. 

Whose choric hearts lit each wild green arcade. 

Make men to see their eyes, 

Forced to suspect behind each reed or rose 

The thorn of lurking foes. 

And O, before the daylight goes. 

After the deed against the skies. 

After the last belief and longing dies. 

Make men again to see their eyes 

Whose piteous casements now all unafraid 

Peer out to that far verge where evermore. 

Beyond all woe for which a tear atones. 

The likeness of our own dishonor moans, 

A sea that has no bottom and no shore. 

What shall be done 

By you, shy folk who cease thus heart by heart .'^ 

You for whose fate such fate forever hovers? 

O little lovers. 

If you would still have nests beneath the sun 

Gather your broods about you and depart. 

Before the stony forward-pressing faces 


Into the lands bereft of any sound; 

The solemn and compassionate desert places. 

Give unto men no more the strong delight 

To know that underneath the frozen ground 

Dwells the warm life and all the quick, pure lore. 

Take from our eyes the glory of great flight. 

Let us behold no more 

People untroubled by a Fate's veiled eyes. 

Leave us upon an earth of faith forlorn. 

No more wild tidings from the sweet far skies 

Of love's long utmost heavenward endeavor. 

So shall the silence pour on us forever 

The streaming arrows of unutterable scorn. 

Nor shall the cry of famine be a shield 

The altar of a brutish mood to hide. 

Stains, stains, upon the lintels of our doors 

Wail to be justified. 

Shall there be mutterings at the seasons' yield? 

Has eye of man seen bared the granary floors.^ 

Are the fields wasted? Spilled the oil and wine? 

Is the fat seed under the clod decayed? 

Does ever the fig tree languish or the vine? 

Who has beheld the harvest promise fade ? 

Or any orchard heavy with fruit asway 

Withered away? 

No, not these things, but grosser things than these 

Are the dim parents of a guilt not dim; 

Ancestral urges out of old caves blowing. 

When Fear watched at our coming and our going 

The horror of the chattering face of Whim. 

Hates, cruelties new fallen from the trees 

Whereto we clung with impulse sad for love, 


Shames we have had all time to rid us of, 
Disgraces cold and sorrows long bewept, 
Recalled, revived, and kept, 
Unmeaning quarrels, blood-compelling lust. 
And snarling woes from our old home, the dust. 

Yet even of these one saving shape may rise; 

Fear may unveil our eyes. 

For know you not what curse of blight would fall 

Upon a land lorn of the sweet sky races 

Who day and night keep ward and seneschal 

Upon the treasury of the planted spaces? 

Then would the locust have his fill. 

And the blind worm lay tithe. 

The unfed stones rot in the listless mill. 

The sound of grinding cease. 

No yearning gold would whisper to the scythe. 

Hunger at last would prove us of one blood, 

The shores of dream be drowned in tides of need: 

Horribly would the whole earth be at peace. 

The burden of the grasshopper indeed 

Weigh down the green corn and the tender bud, 

The plague of Egypt fall upon the wheat. 

And the shrill nit would batten in the heat. 

But you, O poor of deeds and rich of breath, 
Whose eyes have made our eyes a hue abhorred; 
Red, eager aids of aid-unneeding Death, 
Hunters before the Lord, 
If on the flinted marge about your souls 
In vain the heaving tide of mourning rolls, 
If from your trails unto the crimson goals 
The weeper and the weeping must depart, 


If lust of blood come on you like a fiery dart 

And darken all the dark autumnal air. 

Then, then — be fair. 

Pluck a young ash tree or a sapling yew 

And at the root end fix an iron thorn, 

Then forth with rocking laughter of the horn 

And passing, with no belling retinue, 

All timorous, lesser sippers of the dew, 

Seek out some burly guardian of the hills 

And set your urgent thew against his thew. 

Then shall the hidden wisdoms and the wills 

Strive, and bear witness to the trees and clods 

How one has dumb lore of the rocks and swales 

And one has reason like unto the gods. 

Then shall the lagging righteousness ensue. 

The powers at last be equal in the scales, 

And the man's club and the beast's claw be flails 

To winnow the unworthy of the two. 

Then on the earth, in the sky and the heavenly court 

That broods behind it, 

Justice shall be awakened and aware. 

Then those who go forth greatly, seeking sport, 

Shall doubtless find it. 

And all things be fair. 

Ridgely Torrence, 


There is something in the autumn that is native to 

my blood — 
Touch of manner, hint of mood; 
And my heart is like a rhyme. 
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson 

keeping time. 


The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry 

Of bugles going by. 

And my lonely spirit thrills 

To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. 

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood 

We must rise and follow her. 
When from every hill of flame 
She calls and calls each vagabond by name. 

Bliss Carman. 


The weasel thieves in silver suit, 

The rabbit runs in gray; 
And Pan takes up his frosty flute 

To pipe the cold away. 

The flocks are folded, boughs are bare, 

The salmon take the sea; 
And O my fair, would I somewhere 

Might house my heart with thee! 

John Vance Cheney, 


Apple-green west and an orange bar. 

And the crystal eye of a lone, one star . . . 

And, "Child, take the shears and cut what you will, 

Frost to-night — so clear and dead-still." 


Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud, 
And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd, 
The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied, — • 
The dahlias that reign by the garden-side. 

The dahlias I might not touch till to-night! 
A gleam of the shears in the fading light. 
And I gathered them all, — the splendid throng, 
And in one great sheaf I bore them along. 

In my garden of Life with its all-late flowers 
I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours: 
"Frost to-night — so clear and dead-still" . . . 
Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill. 

Edith M. Thomas. 


T BELT the morn with ribboned mist; 

With baldricked blue I gird the noon, 
And dusk with purple, crimson-kissed, 

White-buckled with the hunter's-moon. 


These follow me," the Season says: 
"Mine is the frost-pale hand that packs 
Their scrips, and speeds them on their ways, 
With gypsy gold that weighs their backs." 


A daybreak horn the Autumn blows, 
As with a sun-tanned hand he parts 


Wet boughs whereon the berry glows; 
And at his feet the red fox starts. 

The leafy leash that holds his hounds 
Is loosed; and all the noonday hush 

Is startled; and the hillside sounds 
Behind the fox's bounding brush. 

When red dusk makes the western sky 
A fire-lit window through the firs, 

He stoops to see the red fox die 

Among the chestnut's broken burrs. 

Then fanfaree and fanfaree, 

His bugle sounds; the world below 

Grows hushed to hear; and two or three 
Soft stars dream through the aftergloWo 


Like some black host the shadows fall, 
And blackness camps among the trees; 

Each wild wood road, a Goblin Hall, 
Grows populous with mysteries. 

Night comes with brows of ragged storm, 
And limbs of writhen cloud and mist; 

The rain-wind hangs upon his arm 
Like some wild girl who cries unkissed. 

By his gaunt hands the leaves are shed 
In headlong troops and nightmare herds; 

And, like a witch who calls the dead, 

The hill-stream whirls with foaming words* 


Then all is sudden silence and 

Dark fear — like his who cannot see. 

Yet hears, lost in a haunted land, 
Death rattling on a gallow's-tree. 


The days approach again; the days 

Whose mantles stream, whose sandals drag. 

When in the haze by puddled ways 

The gnarled thorn seems a crooked hag. 

When rotting orchards reek with rain; 

And woodlands crumble, leaf and log; 
And in the drizzling yard again 

The gourd is tagged with points of fog. 

Now let me seat my soul among 

The woods' dim dreams, and come in touch 
With melancholy, sad of tongue 

And sweet, who says so much, so much. 

Madison Cawein. 


Now along the solemn heights 
Fade the Autumn's altar-lights; 

Down the great earth's glimmering chancel 
Glide the days and nights. 

Little kindred of the grass. 
Like a shadow in a glass 

Falls the dark and falls the stillness; 
We must rise and pass. 


We must rise and follow, wending 

Where the nights and days have ending, -- • 

Pass in order pale and slow 
Unto sleep extending. 

Little brothers of the clod. 
Soul of fire and seed of sod. 

We must fare into the silence 
At the knees of God. 

Little comrades of the sky. 
Wing to wing we wander by. 
Going, going, going, going. 
Softly as a sigh. 

Hark, the moving shapes confer. 
Globe of dew and gossamer. 

Fading and ephemeral spirits 
In the dusk astir. 

Moth and blossom, blade and bee. 
Worlds must go as well as we. 

In the long procession joining 
Mount and star and sea. 

Toward the shadowy brink we climb 
Where the round year rolls sublime. 
Rolls, and drops, and falls forever 
In the vast of time. 

Like a plummet plunging deep 
Past the utmost reach of sleep. 

Till remembrance has no longer 
Care to laugh or weep. 

Charles G. D, Roberts. 



I LIFT mine eyes against the sky. 
The clouds are weeping, so am I; 
I Hft mine eyes again on high, 
The sun is smiling, so am I. 
^Yhy do I smile? Why do I weep? 
I do not know; it lies too deep. 

I hear the winds of autumn sigh, 

They break my heart, they make me cry; 

I hear the birds of lovely spring, 

My hopes revive, I help them sing. 

^Yhv do I sing? Whv do I crv? 

It lies so deep, I know not why. 

Morris Rosenfeld, 


1 KNOW it must be winter (though I sleep) — 
I know it must be winter, for I dream 
I dip my bare feet in the running stream. 
And flowers are many, and the grass grows deep. 

I know I must be old (how age deceives!) 

I know I must be old, for, all unseen, 

My heart grows young, as autumn fields grow green; 

When late rains patter on the falling sheaves. 

I know I must be tired (and tired souls err) — 
I know I must be tired, for all my soul 
To deeds of daring beats a glad, faint roll. 
As storms the riven pine to music stir. 


I know I must be dying (Death draws near) — 
I know I must be dying, for I crave 
Life — life, strong life, and think not of the grave, 
A^nd turf-bound silence, in the frosty year. 

Edith M, Thomas 


The Ox he openeth wide the Doore, 

And from the Snowe he calls her inne. 

And he hath seen her Smile therefor, 

Our Ladye without Sinne. 

Now soon from Sleep 

A Starre shall leap, 

And soone arrive both King and Hinder 

Amen, Amen: 
But O, the Place co'd I but finde! 

The Ox hath hush'd his voyce and bent 

Trewe eyes of Pitty ore the Mow, 

And on his lovelie Neck, forspent. 

The Blessed layes her Browe. 

Around her feet 

Full Warme and Sweete 

His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dweH: 

Amen, Amen: 
But sore am I with Vaine Travel! 

The Ox is host in Judah stall 
And Host of more than onelie one. 
For close she gathereth w ithal 
Our Lorde her littel Sonne. 


Glad Hinde and King 

Their Gyfte may bring. 

But wo'd to-night my Teares were there, 

Amen, Amen: 
Between her Bosom and His hay re! 

Louise Imogen Guineyc 


Sweet is the time for joyous folk 

Of gifts and minstrelsy; 
Yet I, O lowly-hearted One, 

Crave but Thy company. 
On lonesome road, beset with dread, 

My questing lies afar. 
I have no light, save in the east 

The gleaming of Thy star. 

In cloistered aisles they keep to-day 

Thy feast, O living Lord ! 
With pomp of banner, pride of song. 

And stately sounding word. 
Mute stand the kings of power and place 

While priests of holy mind 
Dispense Thy blessed heritage 

Of peace to all mankind. 

I know a spot where budless twigs 

Are bare above the snow. 
And where sweet winter-loving birds 

Flit softly to and fro; 
There with the sun for altar-fire, 

The earth for kneeling-place. 


The gentle air for chorister, 
Will I adore Thy face. 

Loud, underneath the great blue sky, 

My heart shall paean sing, 
The gold and myrrh of meekest love 

Mine only offering. 
Bliss of Thy birth shall quicken me; 

And for Thy pain and dole 
Tears are but vain, so I will keep 

The silence of the soul. 

Alice Brown. 


What delightful hosts are they — 

Life and Love! 
Lingeringly I turn away. 

This late hour, yet glad enough 
They have not withheld from me 

Their high hospitality. 
So, with face lit with delight 

And all gratitude, I stay 

Yet to press their hands and say, 
Thanks. — So fine a time! Good night." 

James Whitcomh Rileyc 


Barker, Elsa. Born at Leicester, Vermont. Received her 
early education in that State. After a short period of teach- 
ing, she became a newspaper writer and contributed to vari- 
ous periodicals and syndicates. Her journalistic period closed 
with editorial work upon *' Hampton's Magazine" in 1909 
and 1910. Since that date she has published several books irf 
different fields of literature: "The Son of Mary Bethel," a 
novel, putting the character of Christ in modern setting; 
"Stories from the New Testament, for Children"; "Letters 
of a Living Dead Man," psychic communications which have 
attracted much attention; and in poetry, "The Frozen Grail, 
and Other Poems," 1910; "The Book of Love," 1912; and 
"Songs of a Vagrom Angel," 1916. Mrs. Barker's poem, "The 
Frozen Grail," addressed to Peary, the explorer, did much, 
as he has testified, to inspire him, and was upon his person 
when he finally achieved the North Pole. 

Braithwaite, William Stanley. Born at Boston, De- 
cember 6, 1878. Educated in the public schools of that city. 
He has published two volumes of his own verse, "Lyrics of 
Life and Love," 1904, and "The House of Falling Leaves," 
1908, but has given his time chiefly to editorial and critical 
work. Mr. Braithwaite edited three excellent anthologies: 
"The Book of Elizabethan Verse," "The Book of Restoration 
Verse," and "The Book of Georgian Verse," but has turned 
his entire attention, for several years past, to contemporary 
American poetry, having founded and edited "The Poetry 
Journal of Boston," "The Poetry Review of America," etc. 
Mr. Braithwaite summarizes each year for the "Boston 
Transcript" the poetic output of the American magazines, 
and publishes, in an "Anthology of Magazine Verse," what 
he regards as the best poems printed in our periodicals dur- 
ing the year. 

Branch, Anna Hempstead. Born at Hempstead House, 
New London, Connecticut. Graduated from Smith College 
in 1897 and from the American Academy of Dramatic Art 
in New York City in 1900. While at college she began writ- 
ing poetry, and the year after her graduation won the first 
prize awarded by the "Century Magazine" for a poem writ- 
ten by a college graduate. This poem, "The Road 'Twixt 
Heaven and Hell," was printed in the "Century Magazine" 
for December, 1898, and was followed soon after by the pub- 


lication of Miss Branch's first volume, "The Heart of the 
Road," 1901. She has since published two volumes, "The 
Shoes that Danced," 1902, and "Rose of the Wind," 1910, 
both marked by imagination and beauty of a high order. 

Brown, Alice. Born at Hampton Falls, New Hampshire, 
December 5, 1857. Educated at Robinson Seminary, Exeter. 
She is chiefly known as a novelist, having written with great 
art of the life of New England. Among her best-known vol- 
umes are "Meadow Grass," a collection of short stories; 
"Tiverton Tales"; "The Mannerings"; "Margaret War- 
rener"; "Rose MacLeod"; "My Love and I," etc. In 1915 
Miss Brown received a prize of $10,000, given by Winthrop 
Ames, for the best play submitted to him by an American 
writer. This drama, "Children of Earth," was produced the 
following season at the Booth Theater in New York. In 
poetry Miss Brown has done but one volume, "The Road to 
Castaly," 1896, reprinted with new poems in 1917, but this 
is so fine in quality as to give her a distinct place among 
American poets. 

Burton, Richard. Born at Hartford, Connecticut, March 
14, 1859. Received the degree of A.B. from Trinity College in 
1883 and of Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins University in 1888. 
He entered journalism and became for a short time managing 
editor of "The Churchman," leaving this position to become 
literary editor of the "Hartford Courant," where he remained 
from 1890 to 1897. During this period he was also associate 
editor of the "Warner Library of the World's Best Litera- 
ture." In 1902 he went to Boston as literary editor of the 
Lothrop Publishing Company, remaining until 1904. Previ- 
ous to this time. Dr. Burton had been lecturing widely upon 
poetry and the drama and spent the succeeding two years 
chiefly engaged in this work. In 1906 he l)ecame the head of 
the English Department of the University of Minnesota, 
which position he still holds, although the scholastic year is 
broken annually by a lecture tour through the East. Dr. 
Burton has published -many volumes of poetry and several 
upon the drama. Among the former one may cite as most 
representative: "Dumb in June," 1895; "Lvrics of Brother- 
hood," 1899; "Message and Melody," 1903; "Rahab: A 
Poetic Drama," 1906; "From the Book of Life," 1909; and 
"A Midsummer Memory," an elegy upon the untimely 
death of Arthur Upson, 1910. 

Bynxer, Witter. Born at Brooklyn, New York, August 
10, 1881. Graduated at Harvard University in 1902. After 
his graduation he became assistant editor of "McClure's 
Magazine" and literary editor of McClure, Phillips & Com- 
pany until 1906. Since that period he has devoted himself 


chiefly to the writing of poetry and poetic drama. His first 
vohime, "An Ode to Harvard, and Other Poems," was pub- 
lished in 1907. This has been followed by the poetic dramas, 
"Tiger," 1913, and "The Little King," 1917, both of which 
have had stage presentation, and by "The New World,'* 
1915, amplified from his Phi Beta Kappa Poem delivered 
at Harvard in 1911. 

Carman, Bliss. Although so long a resident of America 
that he belongs among our poets. Bliss Carman was born at 
Fredericton, New Brunswick, April 15, 1861. He received 
the degree of A.B. from the University of New Brunswick in 
1881 and of A.M. in 1884). He studied also at Harvard and 
at the University of Edinburgh. Like most poets, Mr. Car- 
man served his period in journalism, being oflBce editor of 
"The Independent" from 1890 to 1892, and editor of "The 
Chap-Book" in 1894-. He has, however, given almost his sole 
allegiance to poetry and has published many books, chiefly of 
nature, interspersed now and then with volumes dealing with 
myth or mysticism. His first volume was "Low Tide on 
Grand Pre," which appeared in 1893, and revealed at the out- 
set his remarkable lyric gift and his sensitive feeling for na- 
ture. In collaboration with Richard Hovey he did the well- 
known "Vagabondia Books," — "Songs from Vagabondia," 
1894«; "More Songs from Vagabondia," 1896; and "Last 
Songs from Vagabondia," 1900, — which introduced a new 
note into American poetry, and appearing, as they did, in the 
nineties, formed a wholesome contrast to some of the work 
then emanating from the "Decadent School" in England. 
Among the finest of Mr. Carman's volumes, aside from his 
work with Richard Hovev, are "Behind the Arras: A Book 
of the Unseen," 1895; "Ballads of Lost Haven," 1897; "By 
the Aurelian Wall, and Other Elegies," 1899; "The Green 
Book of the Bards," 1898; "Pipes of Pan," 5 volumes, first 
number in 1902; "Sappho: One Hundred Lyrics," 1903. 
Among his later books mav be cited "Echoes from Vaga- 
bondia," 1912, and "April Airs," 1916. 

Cather, Willa Sibert. Born at Winchester, Virginia, 
December 7, 1875. During her childhood the family moved 
to Nebraska, and in 1895 Miss Cather was graduated from 
the University of that State. Coming East to engage in news- 
paper work, she became associated with the staff of the "Pitts- 
burgh Daily Leader," where she remained from 1897 to 1901. 
Soon after, she became one of the editors of " McClure's Mag- 
azine," doing important feature articles until 1912. Miss 
Cather is now writing fiction, and has published three novels, 
"Alexander's Bridge," "O Pioneers!" and "The Song of the 
Lark." In poetry, she has done but one small volume, " April 


Twilight," 1903, but several poems from this collection seem 
iikely to make for themselves a permanent place. 

Cawein, Madison. Born at Louisville, Kentucky, March 
23, I860. Educated in the public schools of that city. He 
began writing very early and published his first book of verse, 
*' Blooms of the Berry," 1887, when but twenty-two years of 
age. From that time until his death, December 7, 1915, he 
published many volumes of poetry inspired chiefly by the 
theme of nature. As most of these volumes are out of print, 
it is unnecessary to list them all, but among the more im- 
portant may be cited: "Intimations of the Beautiful," 189-1; 
" Undertones," 1896; "The Garden of Dreams," 1896; " Mvth 
and Romance," 1899; " Weeds by the Wall," 1901 ;" Kentucky 
Poems," with an Introduction bv Edmund Gosse, London, 
1902; "A Voice on the Wind," 19^02; "The Vale of Tempe," 
1905; "Complete Poetical Works," 5 volumes, 1907; "New 
Poems," London, 1909; "Poems — A Selection from the Com- 
plete Work," 1911,; "The Poet, the Fool, and the Fairies," 
1912; "Minions of the Moon," 1913; "The Poet and Nature," 
1914; and "The Cup of Comus," posthumous publication, 
1915. Mr. Cawein was distinctly the creator of his own field. 
From the publication of his first little volume, "Blooms of the 
Berry," he had made himself the intimate, almost the mystic, 
comrade of nature. He had an ecstatic sense of the visible 
world. Beauty was his religion, and he spent his life learning 
the ways and moods of nature and declaring them in poetry 
rich in imagination. He had the naturalist's eagerness for 
truth, and one might explore the Kentucky woods and fields 
with a volume of his poetry as a handbook and find the least 
regarded flower minutely celebrated* In his most aflBuent 
fancy his eye neverJeft the- fact, and the accuracy of his ob- 
servation gives his nature work a background which adds 
greatly to its value. 

Cheney, Johx Vance. Born at Groveland, New York, 
December 29, 1848. Received his early education at Temple 
Hill Academy in Geneseo, New York. After a short period of 
teaching and of practicing law, he became the librarian of 
the Free Public Library of San Francisco and held this posi- 
tion from 1887 to 1894, when he accepted a similar one at the 
Newberry Library in Chicago, where he remained until 1899. 
Since that date he has resided in California, where he devotes 
his time to literarv work. His volumes of poetrv are: "Thistle 
Drift," 1887; "Woodblooms," 1888; "Out of the Silence," 
1897; "Lvrics," 1901; "Poems," 1905; "The Time of Roses," 
1908; "At the Silver Gate," 1911. 

CoATEs, Florence Earle. Born at Philadelphia and 
educated at private schools in that city and in France. She 


studied also at Brussels. Her volumes of poetrv in their order 
are, "Poems," 1898; "Mine and Thine," 1904; "Lvrics of 
Life," 1909; "The Unconquered Air," 1912; "Poems," Col- 
lected Edition, in two volumes, 1916. 

CoLTox, Arthur. Born at Washington, May 22, 1868. 
Received the degree of A.B. at Yale University in 1890 and of 
Ph.D. in 1893. He was also instructor in English at Yale for 
two years following the taking of his last degree. Since 1906 
he has been librarian of the University Club of Xew York 
City. Mr. Colton has published several volumes of essays and 
but one volume of poetry : "Harps Hung up in Babylon," 1907. 

CoxE, Helen Gray. Born in Xew York City, March 8, 
1859. Graduated at the Normal College of New Y'ork City 
in 1876. She has been Professor of English Literature at her 
Alma Mater, now called Hunter College, since 1899. Her 
volumes of verse are: "Oberon and Puck," 1885; "The Ride 
to the Lady," 1893; "Soldiers of the Light," 1911; "A Chant 
of Love for England, and Other Poems," 1915. 

Daly, Thomas Augustixe. Born at Philadelphia, May 28, 
1871, and educated at Fordham University. He was for some 
time reporter and editorial writer on the "Philadelphia Rec- 
ord," and is now the general manager of the "Catholic 
Standard and Times." Mr. Daly has put the Italian immi- 
grant into poetry and written several volumes of delightful 
verse in this field. He has not pursued this exclusively, how- 
ever, but has done some excellent work in other themes. His 
volumes are: "Canzoni," 1906; "Carmina," 1909; "Ma- 
drigali," 1912; and "Songs of Wedded Love," 1916. 

Dargax, Olive Tilford. Born in Grayson County, Ken- 
tucky, and educated at the University of Nashville and at 
Radcliffe College. She became a teacher- and was connected 
with various schools in Arkansas, Missouri, and Texas until 
her marriage. Mrs. Dargan's first work was in poetic drama in 
which she revealed gifts of a high order. Her dramatic vol- 
umes are: "Semiramis, and Other Plavs," 1904; "Lords and 
Lovers," 1906; and "The Mortal Gods," 1912. Mrs. Dargan 
has also written a collection of lyric verse called "Path 
Flower," 1914, and a sonnet sequence, "The Cycle's Rim," 

Daskl\m, Josephixe Dodge (Mrs. Seldex Bacox). Born 
at Stamford, Connecticut, February 17, 1876. Graduated at 
Smith College in 1898. She is chiefly known as a novelist and 
writer of short stories in which field she has had conspicuous 
success. Among her volumes of fiction are: "The Madness of 
Philip"; "Whom the Gods Destroyed"; " Margherita's 
Soul " ; and "Open Market." Miss Daskam has done but one 
volume of verse: "Poems," 1903. 


Davis, Fannie Stearns (Mrs. Augustus McKinstret 
Gifford). Born at Cleveland, Ohio, March 6, 1884. Edu- 
cated at Smith College, from which she graduated in 1904. 
She is the author of two volumes of poetry: "Myself and I," 
1913, and "Crack O' Dawn," 1915, both marked by sensitive 
poetic feeling and delicate artistry. 

Firkins, Chester. Born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, June 
30, 1882. Received his education in the public schools of that 
city and at the University of Minnesota. He was an active 
journalist, having been associated with the press of Columbus 
and Cincinnati, Ohio, and of Chicago before coming to New 
York, where he served on the staff of the "New York Ameri- 
can" until his death, March 1, 1915. He was a contributor 
of stories and verse to well-known magazines, but his volume 
of poems was brought out posthumously in 1916. 

French, Nora May. Born in East Aurora, New York, 
and died at Carmel, California, on November 14, 1907, when 
twenty-six years of age. A small volume of her poems, edited 
by her friend, George Sterling, was brought out after her 

Garrison, Theodosia (Mrs. Frederick J. Faulks). 
Born at Newark, New Jersey. Educated at private schools in 
New York. She was for several years a constant contributor 
of poetry to the magazines, though she has written less of 
late. Her two published volumes of verse are: "Joy O' Life," 
1908, and "The Earth Cry," 1910. 

Greene, Sarah Pratt McLean. Born at Simsbury, Con- 
necticut, July 3, 1856 and educated at McLean Academy and 
at Mount Holyoke College. She is chiefly known as the au- 
thor of "Cape Cod Folks," " Vesty of the Basins," and other 
volumes dealing with the life of the Cape Cod fishermen, but 
Mrs. Greene has written one poem destined to hold a perma- 
nent place not only in our literature, but in the larger body of 
enduring poetry. This is "De Massa ob de Sheepfol," con- 
tained in this collection. 

Guiney, Louise Imogen. Born at Boston, January 7, 
1861. Educated in the private schools of Boston and the 
Sacred Heart Convent in Providence, Rhode Island. Her 
father, Patrick Guiney, was a brigadier-general in our Civil 
War, and having been born during the period of the conflict 
and her early youth having been spent almost before the echo 
of the guns had died. Miss Guiney's work was much influ- 
enced by this background of association. The symbolism of 
her poetry is frequently drawn from battle or from knight- 
errantry, as in "The Wild Ride," "The Kings," "The Vigil- 
at-Arms," "The Knight Errant," "Memorial Day," etc. 
Valor, transmuted to a spiritual quality, may, indeed, be said 


CO be the keynote of Miss Guiney's work. Add to this a mys- 
tical element, best illustrated in her poem, "Beati Mortui," 
a Celtic note, shown so exquisitely in her "Irish Peasant 
Song," and one has the more obvious characteristics of poetry 
that, whatever its theme, is always distinguished and indi- 
vidual. Miss Guiney has a crisp economy of phrase, a pun- 
gency and tang, that invest her style with an unusual degree 
of personalitv. Her volumes in their order have been: "The 
White Sail'^^lSST; "A Roadside Harp," 1893; "Nine Son- 
nets Written at Oxford," 1895; "The Martyr's Idyl," 1899; 
and "Happy Ending," her collected poems, 1909. 

Hagedorx, Hermann. Born July 18, 1882. Educated at 
Harvard University and the University of Berlin and served 
as instructor in English at Harvard from 1909 to 1911. Mr. 
Hagedorn is the author of "The Silver Blade: A Play in 
Verse," 1907; "The ^Yoman of Corinth," 1908; "A Troop of 
the Guard," 1909; "Poems and Ballads," 1911; and "The 
Great Maze and the Heart of Youth: A Poem and a Play," 

Helburn, Theresa. Born in New York City. Educated 
at Bryn Mawr College and at Radcliffe. She has not yet pub- 
lished a collection of poetry, but has contributed to the lead- 
ing magazines. 

HovEY, Richard. Born at Normal, Illinois, May 4, 1864, 
died February 24, 1900. He received his early education at 
Dartmouth College, which he afterward celebrated in several 
of his best-known poems. In collaboration with Bliss Carman 
he did the well known " Vagabondia Books, " — " Songs from 
Vagabondia," 1894; "More Songs from Vagabondia," 1896; 
''*Last Songs from Vagabondia," 1900, — books whose fresh- 
ness and charm immediately won them a place in public 
favor that time has not lessened. Aside from his work with 
Mr. Carman and his lyric collection, "Along the Trail," 1898, 
Hovey had done a remarkable group of poetic dramas built 
upon the Arthurian legend and issued separately under the 
titles, "The Quest of Merlin: A Masque," 1898; "The Mar- 
riage of Guenevere: A Tragedy," 1898; "The Birth of Gala- 
had: A Romantic Drama," 1898; "Taliesin: A Masque," 
1899. These were but part of the dramas projected in the 
cycle and a fragment of the next to be issued, "The Holy 
Grail," was published, with explanatory notes of the whole 
series, in 1907. The dramas stand for a dramatic achievement 
of a high order, and contain poetry of great beauty, reaching 
at times, in the lyric masque of "Taliesin," an almost con- 
summate expression. Richard Hovey was, indeed, both in 
lyric and dramatic work, a poet of rare endowment and his 
sarly death was a distinct loss to American letters. 


Johns, Orrick. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, in 1887. Edu- 
cated at the University of Missouri and Washington Univer- 
sity in St. Louis. He was associated for a short time with 
" Reedy 's Mirror." In 1912 he received the first prize, of five 
hundred dollars, for a poem entitled "Second Avenue," con- 
tributed to the prize contest of "The Lyric Year," and after- 
wards published in that volume. 

Jones, Thomas S., Jr. Born at Boonville, New York, 
November 6, 1882. Graduated at Cornell University in 1904. 
He was on the dramatic staff of the " New York Times," from 
1904 to 1907, and associate editor of "The Pathfinder," in 
1911. His published volumes are: "Path of Dreams," 1904; 
"From Quiet Valleys," 1907; "Interludes," 1908; "Ave 
Atque Vale" (In Memoriam Arthur Upson), 1909; "The 
Voice in the Silence," with a Foreword by James Lane Allen, 
1911; and "The Rose-Jar," originally published in 1906, but 
taken over in 1915 by Thomas B. Mosher and made the initial 
volume of "Lyra Americana," his first series of American 

Kilmer, Joyce. Born at New Brunswick, New Jersey^ 
December 6, 1886, and graduated at Columbia University in 
1908. After a short period of teaching he became associated 
with Funk and Wagnalls Company, where he remained from 
1909 to 1912, when he assumed the position of literary editor 
of "The Churchman." In 1913 Mr. Kilmer became a mem- 
ber of the staff of the "New York Times," a position which 
he still occupies. His volumes of poetry are: "A Summer of 
Love," 1911, and "Trees, and Other Poems," 1914. 

Knowles, Frederick Lawrence. Born at Lawrence, 
Massachusetts, September 8, 1869, and graduated at Wes- 
leyan University in 1894 and Harvard University in 1896. 
He was connected for a short time with the editorial depart- 
ment of Houghton MiflBin Company and with the staff of 
L. C. Page and Company as literary adviser. In 1900 he ac- 
cepted a similar position with Dana Estes and Company 
where he remained until his death in September, 1905. Mr. 
Knowles was the author of two volumes of verse: "On Life's 
Stairway," 1900, and "Love Triumphant," 1904. In addi- 
tion to his own work in poetry he was the editor of several ex- 
cellent anthologies, such as "The Golden Treasury of Ameri- 
can Lyrics," 1897; "A Treasury of Humorous Poetry," 1902; 
and "A Year-Book of Famous Lyrics." Mr. Knowles was a 
poet of fine gifts and his early death was a loss to Amer- 
ican poetry. 

Ledoux, Louis. Born at New York City, June 6, 1880. 
Educated at Columbia University, where he graduated in 
1902. He is the author of "Songs from the Silent Land," 


1905: "The >:.m]-5 Pr.z.^ress,'' 1907;"Yzdra : A P.:^:ic Dr^;^," 
1909; '*The Shadow of Etna," 19U; "The Stor.- of Eleuiis: 
A Lyrical Drama." 1916. 

Lk Galuxxxi:, Richard. Bona :i ^ . I _ ^, 

Januaiy ^ 1866. He wais already a well-kiio^ - 

ist, and cntic when he took Jsp his lesidenoe ui ii«e Lniied 
States. In each of these fields Mr. LeGaffiemie has achicFed 
conspiciioiissaooessand itwoold bediflBcnlt tosay whatphase 
of his hteraiy woA. shcMild take i»eoedence of the othcfs. 
Among the b^ known of his prose woiks aie: '^Hie Quest <rf 
the Golden Giri," "Book Bills of Xaraasns," ''An Old Coon- 
try House," ''little I>inn»s with the Sphhix,'' etc In crit- 
icisni he has done partieulazfy fine w(M[k in his study of Geoige 
Mcfedith and in his Tofanne, "Attitudes and Avowals." In 
poetzy, with wiiich we are cjiiefly concerned, he has given us 
aevcxal volumes distinguished by that ddicacy and sensitive 
feeling tar beauty whidi cJiaracteiiae all of his woik. ITiese 
aie: " Edi^lish Poems,*' 189£; " Stevenson, and Other Poems," 
1895; "New Poems," 1909; "The LcMidly Dancer," 1913. In 
addition to these volumes, Mr. Le GalHenne has made an 
admiiaUe para|diiase of the "Ruba^at" of Oknar Khayyam 
and of a group of odes from the "Divan'' of Hafix. 

LiXDSAT, Yaceel. Bom November 10, 1879. Educated at 
Hiram CoUege, CHiio. Hetoc^upthestu4yof art and studied 
at the Art Institute, Chicago, 1900-03 and at the New Toik 
ScIhmJ oi Art, 1901^^05. For a time after his technical stm^y, 
he lectured upon art in its practical rdlation to thecommunity, 
and rrtnming to his home in Springfield, Illinois, iasoed what 
one mi^t term his manifesto in the shape of "The Village 
Magarine," divifled about cquaify between {Hose articles, 
pertaining to beautifying his native city, and poems, iHos- 
trated by his own drawings. Soon after this, Mr. Lindsay, 
taking as sciq> for the journey, "Rhymes to be IVaded for 
Bread," made a pilgrimage on foot thiou^ several Western 
States gKMUg as far afield as New Mexico. The story of this 
journey is givoi in his Tc^ome, "Adventures while Preaching 
theGospd of Beauty." Mr. ^ ^ - - ^^zaded atben- 
ikm. in poetzy by "General ^ ^^iters into 

Heaven," a poem which becaiir : '^e of his first volume, 
in 1913. His second volume was "I ?^' published in 

1914. He is attonpting to re>^~ ^- ' '~s early appeal 

as a spcAen art, and his late: _ ratty from the 

seiecticms contained in this 

Lodge; George Cabot. - — '"^ *:ober 12, 1873. 

Bducated at Harvard I University of 

Paris. He did his first ^ rtry at Harvard in the stim- 

nlating cnmpanwHrJiip ui sl iitue grooqp of poets JnrhidiBic 


Trumbull Stickney, William Vaughn Moody, and Philip 
Henry Savage, all of whom, by a strange fatality, died within 
a few years after leaving the University. Mr. Lodge was a 
poet whose gift followed classical lines, but was none the less 
individual and sincere. His complete work in lyric and dra- 
matic poetry has been gathered into two volumes: "Poems 
and Dramas," 1911. He died at Boston in 1909. 

Lowell, Amy. Born at Boston, February 9, 1874. Edu- 
cated at private schools. She has been prominently identi- 
fied with the "Imagist" movement in poetry and with the 
technical use of vers libre. These movements, however, were 
not yet influencing poetry when "The Little Book of Modern 
Verse" was edited, and Miss Lowell is, therefore, represented 
by a lyric in her earlier and less characteristic manner. Her 
volumes in their order are: "A Dome of Many-Coloured 
Glass," 1912; "Sword Blades and Poppy Seed," 1914; "Men, 
Women, and Ghosts," 1916. Miss Lowell is also the editor of 
"Some Imagist Poets," 1915; "Some Imagist Poets," 1916, 
and "Some Imagist Poets," 1917, all of which contain a 
group of her own poems. 

MacKaye, Percy. Born at New York City, March 16, 
1875. Educated at Harvard University and the University 
of Leipzig. He has written many poetic dramas and several 
volumes of lyric verse. Among the best known of his dramas 
are: "The Canterbury Pilgrims," 1903; "Fenris, the Wolf," 
1905;" Jeanne d'Arc," 1906;"Sappho and Phaon," 1907; and 
"Caliban: A Masque," 1916. He is also the author of sev- 
eral prose dramas which have been successfully produced. In 
non-dramatic poetry his most representative volumes are: 
"Poems," 1909; "Uriel, and Other Poems," 1912; "The Sis- 
tine Eve, and Other Poems," "The Present Hour," 1915. 

Markham, Edwin. Born at Oregon City, Oregon, April 
23, 1852. Removed at an early age to California, where his 
childhood w as spent upon a ranch in herding sheep and riding 
the ranges after the cattle. Later, when the cattle ranges 
turned into farms, he worked in the fields and in autumn 
joined the threshers on their route from farm to farm. During 
his boyhood he attended school but three months in the year, 
but later studied at San Jose Normal School and the Univer- 
sity of California. His first books were earned, w hen a lad on 
the ranch, by ploughing a twenty-acre lot at a dollar an acre 
and investing the entire sum in the works of the great poets. 
Thereafter, when he rode the ranges, he balanced his saddle- 
bags with Keats and Shelley. It was, indeed, largely due to the 
democracy of Shelley, coupled with his own early experiences, 
that his genius took the social bent which distinguishes it. 
After leaving the University, Mr. Markham became a teacher 


in California and was principal and superintendent of several 
schools until 1899, when he sprang suddenly into fame by the 
publication in the "San Francisco Examiner" of his poem 
"The Man With the Hoe." This poem, crystallizing as it did 
the spirit of the time, and emphasizing one's obligation to 
Society, became the impulse of the whole social movement in 
poetry, a movement which largely prevailed during the early 
years of the twentieth century. After the great success of 
"The Man With the Hoe," Mr. Markham removed from 
California to New York City, where he has since been en- 
gaged in literary work. His volumes of poetry in their or- 
der are: "The Man With the Hoe, and Other Poems," 1899; 
"Lincoln, and Other Poems," 1901; "The Shoes of Happi- 
ness," 1915. 

Mifflin, Lloyd. Born at Columbia, Pennsylvania, Sep- 
tember 15, 1846. He was educated at Washington Classical 
Institute and studied art abroad. His chief work in poetry 
has been in the sonnet form, of which he has exceptional mas- 
tery. His volumes are: "The Hills," 1896; "At the Gates 
of Song," 1897; "The Slopes of Helicon, 1898; "The Fields 
of Dawn and Later Sonnets," 1900; "Castilian Days," 1903; 
"Collected Sonnets, 1905; "My Lady of Dream," 1906; and 
"Toward the Uplands," 1908. 

MiLLAY, Edna St. Vincent. Born at Camden, Maine. 
Educated at Vassar College. Before entering college, how- 
ever, when she was but nineteen years of age, she wrote the 
poem "Renascence," which was entered in the prize contest 
of "The Lyric Year." The poem shows remarkable imagi- 
nation and a poetic gift of a high order. Miss Millay has not 
yet issued a volume of verse. 

Moody, William Vaughn. Born at Spencer, Indiana, July 
8, 1869. Educated at Riverside Academy, New York, and at 
Harvard. In 1895 he became Assistant Professor of English 
in the University of Chicago, where he remained until 1903. 
His period of teaching, however, was relieved by several trips 
abroad, on one of which he visited Greece and re-read the 
entire body of Greek tragedy with the background of the 
scenes which produced it. The Greek influence, dominant in 
his work, reaches its finest expression in "The Fire-Bringer," 
a poetic drama of great beauty and philosophical depth. This 
drama is one of a trilogy of which it is the first member, the 
second being "The Masque of Judgment," and the third, 
"The Death of Eve." The last was in process of writing at 
Mr. Moody's death and only fragments of it have been pub- 
lished. This trilogy, profound in its spiritual meaning and 
artistic in execution, would alone be suflBcient to place Moody 
among the major poets had he not left us a body of lyric 


poetry of equal distinction. Moody first attracted wide atten- 
tion by "An Ode in Time of Hesitation," written in relation 
to the annexation of the Philippine Islands by the United 
States. In addition to this he has left us several poems no- 
table for their social vision, particularly "Gloucester Moors." 
In the songs of "The Fire-Bringer," however, we have his 
truest lyric offering, and in "The Daguerreotype," that 
poignant and beautiful poem to his mother. Moody died at 
Colorado Springs on October 17, 1910. His work has been 
collected into two volumes, " The Poems and Plays of William 
Vaughn Moody," 1912. 

Neihardt, John G. Born at Sharpsburg, Illinois, January 
8, 1881 . Removed in his early boyhood to Bancroft, Nebraska, 
his present home. He has made a special study of the pioneer 
life of the West and has also lived for a time among the 
Omaha Indians to study them. His work has virility and 
imagination and reflects the life which inspired it. His books 
of verse are: "A Bundle of Myrrh," 1908; "Man-Song," 
1909; "The Stranger at the Gate," 1912; "The Song of Hugh 
Glass," 1915; and "The Quest," 1916. 

Norton, Grace Fallow. Born at Northfield, Minnesota, 
October 29, 1876. She is the author of "The Little Gray 
Songs from St. Joseph's," 1912; "The Sister of the Wind," 
1914; "Roads," 1915; "What is Your Legion.?^" 1916. 

O'Hara, John Myers. Author of "Songs of the Open," 
1909; "The Poems of Sappho: An Interpretative Rendition 
into English," 1910; "Pagan Sonnets," 1910; "The Ebon 
Muse," 1914; "Manhattan," 1915. Mr. O'Hara's rendition 
of "Sappho" is one of the finest in English literature. 

O Sheel, Shaemas. Born at New York City, September 
19, 1886. Educated at Columbia University. His volumes 
are: "The Blossomy Bough," 1911, and "The Light Feet of 
Goats," 1915. 

Peabody, Josephine Preston (Mrs. Lionel Marks). 
Born at New York City. Educated at the Girls' Latin School of 
Boston and at Radcliffe College. She was instructor of English 
at Wellesley College from 1901 to 1903. Her volumes of lyric 
and dramatic poetry in their order are: "The W^ayfarers," 
1898; "Fortune and Men's Eyes," 1900; ''Marlowe: A 
Drama," 1901; "The Singing Leaves," 1903; "The Wings," 
1905; "The Piper," a drama, awarded the Stratford-on-Avon 
Prize, 1910; "The Singing Man," 1911; "The Wolf of Gub- 
bio: A Drama," 1913; "The Harvest Moon," 1916. Miss Pea- 
body, as her volumes show, is a poet of varied gifts and her 
work is always distinguished by charm of personality and by 

Rekse, Lizette Wood worth. Born in Baltimore, Mary- 


land, January 9, 1856. Educated in the schools of that city. 
She has been for many years a teacher of EngHsh in West 
High School of Baltimore. Her volumes of verse are: "A 
Branch of May," 1887; "A Handful of Lavender," 1891; 
*'A Quiet Road," 1896; "A Wayside Lute," 1909. Miss 
Reese has a lyric gift unique in its strict Saxon simplicity. 
Her work has an early, Old-World flavor, a quaintness, a 
magic of phrase that renders it wholly individual. 

Rice, Cale Young. Born at Dixon, Kentucky, December 
7, 1872. Graduated from Cumberland University in 1893, 
and from Harvard University in 1895, where he remained to 
take the degree of A.M. in 1896. He is the author of many 
fine poetic dramas, some of which have had successful stage 
presentation, and of several volumes of h'ric poetry. In 
poetic drama his best-known volumes are : " Charles di Tocca," 
1903; "David," 1904; " Yolanda of Cvprus," 1906; "A Night 
in Avignon," 1907; '*The Immortal Lure," 1911; "Porzia," 
1913. In lyric poetrv he has published the following collec- 
tions: "From Dusk\o Dusk," 1898; "Song Surf," 1900; 
"Nirvana Days," 1908; "Manv Gods," 1910; "Far Quests," 
1912; "At the World's Heart," 1914; "Earth and New 
Eaith," 1916; "Trails Sunward," 1917. With the exception 
of the last two books, Mr. Rice's plays and poems were 
collected into two volumes in 1915. 

Riley, Limes Whitcomb. Born in Greenfield, Indiana, 
in June, 1853, and died at Indianapolis, July, 1916. He oc- 
cupied a field unique in American literature and probably 
no poet came as near to the heart of the people. Popularly 
known as "The Hoosier Poet," because his verse was largely 
written in the dialect of the common people of his native 
State of Indiana, he was yet a poet of the truest gifts, and 
many of his dialect poems bid fair to become classic. Mr. 
Riley did not confine himself, however, to the use of dialect, 
but wrote some exquisite poetry in other fields. Unlike many 
poets, he lived to see himself not only the most beloved and 
honored citizen of his native State, which annually celebrates 
"Riley Day," but the most widely known and beloved poet 
of his period in America. Mr. Riley was so voluminous a 
writer that we have scarcely space to list all of his titles, but 
among the favorite volumes are: "The Old Swimmin' Hole, 
and 'Leven More Poems," 1883; "Afterwhiles," 1887; 
"Pipes o' Pan at Zekesbury," 1888; "Rhymes of Child- 
hood," 1890; "Green Fields and Running Brooks," 1892; 
"Armazindv," 1894; "Love Lvrics," 1899; "Home Folks," 
1900; "Farm Rhvmes," 1901; "An Old Sweetheart of Mine," 
1902; "Out to Old Aunt Mary's," 1904; "Raggedv Man," 
1907; "The Little Orphant Annie Book," 1908; "When the 


Frost is on the Punkin, and Other Poems," 1911; "Knee 
Deep in June, and Other Poems," 1912; and the Biographical 
Edition of the complete works, 1913. 

Roberts, Charles G. D. Born in Douglas, New Bruns- 
wick, January 10, 1860. Educated at the University of New 
Brunswick. After a period of teaching, he turned to journal- 
ism and was editor for a time of "The Week," Toronto, and 
associate editor of " The Illustrated American." Mr. Roberts 
nas been a voluminous writer as novelist, naturalist, and poet. 
His volumes of verse are: "Orion, and Other Poems," 1880; 
" In Divers Tones," 1887; " Songs of the Common Dav," 1893; 
"The Book of the Native," 1896; "New York Nocturnes," 
1898; "Poems," 1901; "The Book of the Rose," 1903; Col- 
lected Poems, 1907. 

Robinson, Edwin Arlington. Born at Head Tide, 
Maine, December 22, 1869. Educated at Harvard University. 
He is the author of "Children of the Night," 1897; "Captain 
Craig," 1902; "The Town Down the River," 1910; "The 
Man against the Sky," 1916; Merlin," 1917; and of two prose 
dramas, "Van Zorn" and "The Porcupine." Mr. Robinson 
is a psychological poet of great subtlety. His poems are 
usually studies of types and he has given us a remarkable 
series of portraits. 

Rogers, Robert Cameron. Born at Buffalo, New York, 
January 7, 1862. Died at Santa Barbara, California, while 
still a young man. He was chiefly known for his poem, "The 
Rosary," contained in this collection. 

RosENFELD, MoRRis. A Yiddish poet who came to America 
»n his early youth. He has been connected editorially with 
the Jewish "Forward " and other papers. He is chiefly known 
for his "Songs of the Ghetto." 

Santa YANA, George E. Born in Madrid, Spain, December 
16, 1863. He was for several years Professor of Philosophy 
at Harvard University, and has written important works in 
this field, particularly "The Sense of Beauty," 1896, and 
"Interpretations of Poetry and Religion," 1900. His work 
in poetry has been largely in the sonnet form, of which he 
has a classic mastery. His volumes of verse are: "Sonnets, 
and Other Poems," 1894; "Lucifer," 1899; "The Hermit of 
Carmel," 1901; "Collected Sonnets," 1910. 

ScHAUFFLER, RoBERT Haven. Bom at Brllu, Austria, 
though of American parentage, on April 8, 1879. He studied 
at Northwestern University, but took his degree of B.A. from 
Princeton in 1902, and afterwards spent a year in study at 
the University of Berlin. Mr. Schauffler was a musician before 
he took up literature and was a pupil of many famous masters 
of the 'cello. He has written upon musical subjects, notably 


in his volume, "The Musical Amateur." He has also WTitten 
several books of travel, such as "Romantic Germany" and 
"Romantic America." He attracted wide attention by his 
poem upon immigration, "The Scum o' the Earth," which 
is the title poem of his volume of verse, 1912. 

ScoLLARD, Clinton. Born at Clinton, New York, Sep>- 
tember 18, 1860. Graduated at Hamilton College in 1881. 
He afterwards studied at Harvard University and at Cam- 
bridge, England. He was Professor of English Literature at 
Hamilton College, 1888-96. Mr. ScoUard has been a volu- 
minous writer, and we must content ourselves with listing 
his more important books. His first volume was "Pictures 
in Song," 1884, followed by: "With Reed and Lyre," 1888; 
"Old and New World Lyrics," 1888; "Songs of Sunrise 
Lands," 1892; "The Hills of Song," 1895; "The Lutes of 
Morn," 1901; "Lyrics of the Dawn," 1902; "The Lvric 
Bough," 1904; "Chords of the Zither," 1910; "Sprays of 
Shamrock," 1914; "Poems," a selection from his complete 
wwk, 1914; "Italy in Arms," 1915; "The Vale of Shadows," 
1915; "Ballads, Patriotic and Romantic," 1916. 

Sherman, Frank Dempster. Born at Peekskill, New 
York, May 6, 1860. Died September 19, 1916. He took the 
degree of Ph.B. from Columbia University in 1884, and was 
Professor of Graphics in Columbia School of Architecture 
from 1904 until his death. He was the author of "Madrigals 
and Catches," 1887; "Lyrics for a Lute," 18901 "Little Folk 
Lyrics," 1892; "Lyrics of Joy," 1904; and "A Southern 
Flight" (with Clinton Scollard), 1906. 

Sterling, George. Born at Sag Harbor, New York, De- 
cember 1, 1869. Educated at private schools and at St. 
Charles College, Ellicott Citv, Maryland. He is the author of 
"The Testimony of the SunsV' 1903; "A Wine of Wizardry," 
1908; "The House of Orchids," 1911; "Beyond the Breakers," 
1914; "Exposition Ode," 1915; and "Yosemite," 1915. Mr. 
Sterling is a writer to whom the sublimer aspects of nature 
appeal and he has a style admirably suited to their portrayal. 

Stickney, Joseph Trumbull. Born at Geneva, Switzer- 
land, June 20, 1874. After a youth spent for the most part 
in Italy and Switzerland, although his family maintained a 
house in New York, Stickney entered Harvard University in 
1891. Graduating with high classical honors in 1895, here- 
turned to Europe to study for the degree Doctorat es Let- 
tres. This was conferred upon him by the University of Paris 
in 1903, in exchange for his two theses, "Les Sentences dans 
la Poesie Grecque d'Homere a Euripide" and "De Hermolai 
Barbari vita atque ingenio dissertationem." This degree, 
the highest in the gift of the University, was never before 


bestowed upon an American. Stickney's volume of poems, 
"Dramatic Verses," had been published in 1902. Leaving 
Paris in April, 1903, Stickney spent a few months in Greece 
and then returned to America to become instructor in Greek 
at Harvard. He died in Boston, October 11, 1904. His 
"Poems" were collected and edited in 1905 by his friends, 
George Cabot Lodge, William Vaughn Moody, and John 
Ellerton Lodge. 

Sweeney, Mildred McNeil. Born at Burnett, Wisconsin, 
August 30, 1871. Graduated from Lawrence University, Ap- 
pleton, Wisconsin in 1889. Mrs. Sweeney has lived much 
abroad. She is the author of "When Yesterday was Young," 
1908; and "Men of No Land," London, 1912. 

Teasdale, Sara (Mrs. Ernst B. Filsinger). Born in 
St. Louis, Missouri, August 10, 1884. Educated at private 
schools. She is the author of "Sonnets to Duse," 1907; 
"Helen of Troy, and Other Poems," 1911; "Rivers to the 
Sea," 1915; "Love Songs," 1917. Editor of " The Answering 
Voice: A Hundred Love Lyrics by Women," 1917. Miss 
Teasdale is a lyric poet of an unusually pure and spontaneous 


Thomas, Edith M. Born at Chatham, Ohio, August 12, 
1854. Graduated at the Normal Institute of Geneva, Ohio. 
Since 1888 she has resided in New York and is a member of 
the editorial staff of "Harper's Magazine." She is the 
author of "A New Year's Masque," 1885; "Lyrics and Son- 
nets," 1887; "The Inverted Torch," 1890; "Fair Shadow- 
land," 1893; "In Sunshine Land," 1895; "A W^inter Swal- 
low," 1896; "The Dancers," 1903; "The Guest at the Gate," 
1909; "The White Messenger," 1915; and "The Flower from 
the Ashes," 1915. Miss Thomas is a poet of rare and subtle 
quality. Her work is almost wholly subjective, the emotional 
reaction to her own experience. She has written many lyrics 
which are among the choicest possessions of our literature. 

Torrence, Ridgely. Born at Xenia, Ohio, November 
27, 1875. Educated at Miami University, Ohio, and at 
Princeton. Served as assistant librarian at the Astor and 
Lenox libraries in New York City from 1897 to 1903. His 
volumes of poetry and poetic drama are: "The House of a 
Hundred Lights," 1900; "El Dorado: A Tragedy," 1903; 
"Abelard and Heloise: A Drama," 1907. 

TowNE, Charles Hanson. Born at Louisville, Kentucky, 
February 2, 1877. Educated at New York City College. Mr. 
Towne has been an active journalist, having been successively 
editor of "The Smart Set," "The Delineator," "The De- 
signer," and "McClure's Magazine." Despite his journalistic 
work he has found time to write several volumes of poetry 


of which the best known are: "The Quiet Singer, and Other 
Poems," 1908; "Manhattan," 1909; "Youth, and Other 
Poems," 1910; "Beyond the Stars, and Other Poems," 1912; 
and "To-dav and To-morrow," 1916. 

UxTERMEYER, Louis. Born at New York City, October 
1, 1885. Educated in the public schools of that city. He has 
been connected editorially with "The Masses" and with 
"The Seven Arts," and does critical work for the "Chicago 
Evening Post." He is the author of "First Love," 1911; 
"Challenge," 1914; "And Other Poets: A Book of Parodies," 
1916; "These Times,' 1917; and " The Poems of Heinrich 
Heine, Selected ^nd Translated," 1917. 

Upson, Arthur. Born at Camden, New Y'ork, in 1877. 
Educated at Camden Academy and the University of Min- 
nesota. He is the author of "^Yestwind Songs," 1902; 
"Octaves in an Oxford Garden," 1902; "The City: A Poem 
Drama," 1905; "The Tides of Spring, and Other Poems," 
1907. Mr. Upson died August 14, 1908. His death was an 
inestimable loss to American literature, as he was a poet of 
rare gifts which were maturing with each expression. 

YiERECK, George Sylvester. Born in Munich, Germany, 
December 31, 1884. Came to America at the age of eleven 
years. Graduated from the College of New York City in 
1906. He was for several years upon the staff of "Current 
Opinion" and is the editor of "The International" and of 
" Yiereck's American Weekly," formerly "The Fatherland." 
Mr. Yiereck's three volumes of verse are: "Nineveh, and 
Other Poems," 1907; "The Candle and the Flame," 1911; 
"Songs of Armageddon," 1916. 

\Yelsh, Robert Gilbert. Dramatic critic of the "Even- 
ing Telegram" of New York City. He has not yet published 
a collection of poetry, but has appeared in the leading maga- 

\Yheeler, Edward J. Born at Cleveland, Ohio, March 11, 
1859. Graduated from Wesley an University in Ohio in 1879, 
His university conferred upon him the degree of Litt.D. in 
1905. Mr. Wheeler is one of the leading journalists of America, 
having been editor of the "Literary Digest ' from 1895 to 
1905 and of "Current Literature," now "Current Opinion," 
since that date. He is also literary editor of Funk and Wag- 
nails Company, Publishers. Mr. Wheeler was one of the 
founders of the Poetry Society of America in 1909 and has 
been president of the organization since that date. 

Wheelock, John Hall. Born at Far Rockaway, New 
York, in 1886. He took the degree of A.B. from Harvard Uni- 
versity in 1908, and spent the next two years in Germany, 
studying during 1909 at Gottingen and during 1910 at the 


University of Berlin. He is connected with the pubHshing 
house of Charles Scribner's Sons. Mr, Wheelock's volumes of 
poetry are: "The Human Fantasy," 1911; "The Beloved 
Adventure," 1912; and "Love and Liberation," 1913. 

Wilkinson, Florence (Mrs. Wilfrid Muir Evax>). 
Born at Tarrytown, New York. Miss Wilkinson studied at 
Chicago University and other American colleges and after- 
wards at the Sorbonne and the Bibliotheque Nationale of 
Paris. She is the author of several novels, of which the best 
known are: "The Lady of the Flag Flowers," "The Strength 
of the Hills," and "The Silent Door"; and also of one or 
two volumes of plays; but her most representative work is 
found in her poetry, of which she has written two volumes: 
"The Far Country," 1906, and "The Ride Home," 1913. 

Woodberry, George Edward. Born at Beverly, Mas- 
sachusetts, May 12, 1855. Graduated with the degree of 
A.B. from Harvard University in 1877. The degree of Litt.D. 
was conferred on him by Amherst College in 1905, and by 
Harvard University in 1911, and the degree of LL.D. by 
Western Reserve University in 1907. He was Professor of 
Enghsh at the University of Nebraska, 1877-78; also 1880- 
82, and was Professor of Comparative Literature at Colum- 
bia University 1891-1901!. Professor Woodberry is one of the 
ablest critics and biographers in American literature as well 
as one of the finest poets. Among his best-known volumes of 
criticism are: "Studies in Letters and Life," "The Heart of 
Man," "Makers of Literature," "The Torch," "The Appre- 
ciation of Literature," and "The Inspiration of Poetry." In 
biography he has done admirable studies of Poe, Hawthorne, 
Shelley, vSwinburne, Emerson, etc.; and in poetry he has pub- 
lished many volumes, of which the most representative are: 
"The North Shore Watch," 1890; "Wild Eden," 1900; 
"Poems," 1903; "The Kingdom of All Souls," 1912; "The 
Flight," 1914; and "Ideal Passion," 1917. 


Barker, Elsa 77, 119 

Braithwaite, William Stanley 84 

Branch, Anna Hempstead 38, 70, 122 

Brown, Alice 25, 82, 200 

Burton, Richard 84, 111, 135 

Bynner, Witter 126, 151, 157 

Carman, Bliss 3, 25, 32, 192 

Gather, Willa Sibert 75 

Cawein, Madison 27, 87, 194 

Cheney, John Vance 122, 193 

CoATES, Florence Earle 37, 121, 128 

CoLTON, Arthur 66, 136 

Cone, Helen Gray 60, 116 

Daly, Thomas Augustine 31, 108 

Dargan, Olive Tilford 73 

Daskam, Josephine Dodge 81 

Davis, Fannie Stearns 28, 96 

Firkins, Chester 7 

French, Nora May 170 

Garrison, Theodosia 58, 133 

Greene, Sarah Pratt McLean 134 

Guiney, Louise Imogen 15, 72, 80, 199 


Hagedorn, Hermann 36, 172 

Helburn, Theresa 38 

HovEY, Richard 11, 128, 159. 183 

Johns, Orrick 48 

Jones, Thomas S., Jr 26, 51, 89 

Kilmer, Joyce 69, 151 

Knowles, Frederic Lawrence 57, 182 

Ledoux, Louis V 100 

Le Gallienne, Richard 26, 33, 98, 173 

Lindsay, Nicholas Vachel 97, 113, 141 

Lodge, George Cabot 118, 156 

Lowell, Amy 83 

MacKaye, Percy 8, 161 

Markham, Edwin 116, 137, 173, 185 

Mifflin, Lloyd 97, 168 

MiLLAY, Edna St. Vincent 8S 

Moody, William Vaughn 4, 17, 41 

Neihardt, John G 143, 155 

Norton, Grace Fallow 78 

O'Hara, John Myers 63, 125 

O Sheel, Shaemas 14, 112 

Peabody, Josephine Preston 52, 86, 127 

Reese, Lizette Woodworth .... 36, 48, 73, 169 
Rice, Cale Young 56, 103, 175 


Riley, James Whitcomb ........ 169, 201 

Robinson, Edwin Arlington . . . . 139, 160, 182 

Roberts, Charles G. D 74, 196 

Rogers, Robert Cameron 129 

Rosenfeld, Morris 198 

Santayana, George 153, 172, 177 


Scollard, Clinton 49, 99, 178 

Sherman, Frank Dempster 30, 63, 68 

Stickney, Trumbull 58, 67, 129 

Sterling, George 8, 103, 170 

Sweeney, Mildred McNeal 9, 154 

Teasdale, Sara 64, 72, 82 

Thomas, Edith M 174, 193, 198 

ToRRENCE, Ridgely 62, 186 

Towne, Charles Hanson 74, 179 

Untermeyer, Louis 16, 56 

Upson, Arthur 12, 32, 153, 181 

ViERECK, George Sylvester 59, 68, 131 

Welsh, Robert Gilbert 167 

Wheeler, Edward J 175 

Wheelock, John Hall 35, 130 

Wilkinson, Florence 50, 110, 114 

Woodberry, George Edward . . . . 11, 51, 157 


A caravan from China comes 98 

A flying word from here and there 139 

A man said unto his Angel 15 

A mile behind is Gloucester town 4 

A rhyme of good Death's inn 169 

Above the shouting of the gale 49 

Across the fields of yesterday 89 

All I could see from where I stood 89 

Aloof upon the day's immeasured dome 8 

Apple-green west and an orange bar 193 

As I came down from Lebanon 99 

As in the midst of battle there is room 153 

At the gate of the West I stand 105 

Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream ... 58 

Beauty calls and gives no warning 62 

Before the solemn bronze Saint Gaudens made ... 17 
Bowed by the weight of centuries, he leans . . . .116 
Breathe me the ancient words when I shall find ... 74 
By seven vineyards on one hill 126 

Comrades, pour the wine to-night 159 

Da spreeng ees com', but oh, da joy 31 

De Massa ob de sheepfol' 134 

England, I stand on thy imperial ground 11 

Fluid the world flowed under us : the hills 8 

For a name unknown 32 

For me the jasmine buds unfold 37 


Four winds blowing through the sky 82 

From their folded mates they wander far 135 

God, I return to you on April days 16 

Golden pulse grew on the shore ........ 6S 

Grandmither, think not I forget, when I come back to 

town 75 

Grey rocks and greyer sea 74 

Grow, grow, thou little tree 32 

He had been singing — but I had not heard his voice . 179 
He whom a dream hath possessed, knoweth no more of 

doubting 14 

Heart free, hand free 84 

Helen's lips are drifting dust 57 

Her talk was all of woodland things 33 

Here is the place where Loveliness keeps house ... 27 

Hill people turn to their hills 50 

Himself is least afraid 154 

How often in the summer-tide 84 

I am fevered with the sunset 11 

I belt the morn with ribboned mist 194 

I have praised many loved ones in my song .... 38 

I know it must be winter (though I sleep) 198 

I lift mine eyes against the sky 198 

I ride on the mountain tops, I ride 185 

I so loved once, when Death came by, I hid .... 169 

I try to knead and spin, but my life is low the while . 80 

I, who have lost the stars, the sod, 7 

I would unto my fair restore 72 

I would I might forget that I am I 177 

If love were but a little thing 128 

If my daik grandam had but known 79 

Impregnable I held myself, secure 121 

In an old book at even as I read 15S 


In the pain, in the loneliness of love 130 

In silence, solitude and stern surmise 156 

In the middle of August when the southwest wind . . 186 

Its friendship and its carelessness 87 

Let me no more a mendicant 136 

Let not our town be large — remembering 141 

Life burns us up like fire 35 

Life said: "My house is thine with all its store" . . 170 

Listen to the tawny thief 30 

Live blindly and upon the hour. The Lord .... 67 

Lord of my heart's elation 3 

Love came back at fall o' dew 73 

May is building her house. With apple blooms ... 26 

Memphis and Karnak, Luxor, Thebes, the Nile . . . 100 

*Mid glad green miles of tillage 143 

Miniver Cheevv, child of scorn 182 

My heart is like a city of the gay 59 

My heart it was a cup of gold 81 

My heart was winter-bound, until 68 

My little soul I never saw 79 

My love for thee doth take me unaware 128 

My mother's hands are cool and fair ...... 38 

My mother has the prettiest tricks 40 

My Soul goes clad in gorgeous things 96 

My true love from her pillow rose 172 

Naked and brave thou goest 114 

Night is the true democracy. When day 175 

Nightingales warble about it 51 

Now along the solemn heights 196 

Now since mine even has come at last 60 

O brown brook, O blithe brook, what will you say to me 28 
O hearken, all ye little weeds 25 


O little buds all bourgeoning with Spring 26 

O love that is not Love, but dear, so dear 73 

O white Priest of Eternity, around 103 

Of old it went forth to Euchenor, pronounced of his sire 12 

Oh, grieve not, Ladies, if at night 70 

Only of thee and me the nightwind sings 56 

Others endure man's rule, he therefore deems . . .121 

Out of the conquered Past 181 

Out of the purple drifts 63 

Perhaps they laughed at Dante in his youth .... 151 

Sargon is dust, Semiramis a clod 103 

Shall I say that what heaven gave 157 

She *s somewhere in the sunlight strong 173 

Sleep softly . . . eagle forgotten . . . under the stone . 113 
So hath he fallen, the Endymion of the air .... 9 

Song is so old 36 

Speak: said my soul, be stern and adequate . . . .118 

Squire Adam had two wives, they say 69 

Such special sweetness was about 36 

Sweet is the highroad when the skylarks call .... 68 
Sweet is the time for joyous folk 200 

That day her eyes were deep as night 129 

The angels in high places 167 

The harps hung up in Babylon 66 

The hours I spent with thee, dear heart 129 

The islands called me far away 127 

The little Road says. Go 86 

The low- voiced girls that go 173 

The old eternal spring once more 25 

The Ox he openeth wide the Doore 199 

The three ghosts on the lonesome road 133 

The twilight's inner flame grows blue and deep ... 64 
The waves about lona dirge 178 


The weasel thieves in silver suit 193 

Then, lady, at last thou art sick of my sighing ... 82 
Then that dread angel near the awful throne .... 97 

There is a quest that calls me 175 

There is no escape by the river 183 

There is something in the autumn that is native to my 

blood 192 

There moved a Presence always by his side . . , . 156 

These are the best of him 182 

They went forth to battle but they always fell . . .112 

This, then, is she 41 

Thou art the rock of Empire, set mid-seas .... 12 

Threading a darksome passage all alone 174 

Thy hands are like cool herbs that bring 131 

To-day ees com' from Eetaly 108 

To-day I saw the shop-girl go 122 

To you he gave his laughter and his jest 58 

Upon a cloud among the stars we stood 168 

Uriel, you that in the ageless sun 161 

Voice, with what emulous fire thou singest free hearts of 
old fashion 116 

We are the toilers from whom God barred Ill 

We are they that go, that go 110 

We go no more to Calverly's 160 

We needs must be divided in the tomb 172 

What delightful hosts are they 201 

What shape so furtive steals along the dim .... 125 
When I am dead and over me bright April .... 72 

When I am dead and sister to the dust 77 

When I am tired of earnest men 151 

When 1 consider life and its few years 48 

When I have finished with this episode 155 

When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour . . 137 


When the wind is low and the sea is soft . . 56 

Where are the friends that I knew in my Ma^ . .157 

Wliither, with blue and pleading eyes 170 

Who drives the horses of the sun 122 

Who shall declare the joy of the running 83 

Why do you seek the sun 97 

"WTiy sing the legends of the Holy Grail 119 

Wind-washed and free, full-swept by rain and wave . 51 

With cassock black, baret and book 78 

Would I were on the sea-lands 48 

Yes, nightingale, through all the summer-time • • • 5£ 



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